Campbell Noir
by rioludoodle
Summary: It's the roaring '20s, and one can encounter anything in New York City. Cameron Campbell finds mafia debt and speakeasies. A trio of troublemakers who find adventure in south Brooklyn. A detective and a police photographer find the best and worst of humanity in unexpected places and desperately hope to catch a serial killer who dresses his victims in white. Detective Noir AU.
1. Serial

**Chapter 1: Serial**

It was a pleasantly warm summer morning in west Brooklyn. The sun shone down brightly, street musicians played on the sidewalk, and a great many pedestrians wearing light coats and large hats were journeying up and down the streets, some of them accompanied by children. A young paperboy hopped onto his bicycle in front of a small print shop and began to zip down the road with an invincible smirk.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a pierside neighborhood on the other side of the borough, there was another kind of busy chaos happening. A pair of police officers stood guard by a yellow barricade to prevent curious onlookers - or worse yet, curious members of the press - from entering the waterfront side street named Dulce.

Just far enough beyond the barrier that it was difficult to tell what was happening, a slew of law enforcement officials was flying about like bees. Many of them were rapidly jotting down information on clipboards or dictating words to assistants who in turn jotted them down on clipboards. Some were knocking door to door along the crooked row of townhouses opposite the water, interviewing the ethnically Italian residents. One particularly grim-faced officer was kneeling on the ground, hard at work with a roll of white tape and a pair of scissors.

"Excuse me," said David while he tried to jostle as few other people as possible as he wove through the small crowd blocked by the barricade, "Pardon me. Sorry, ma'am!"

Stumbling a little bit as he reached the officers at the barrier, he caught his balance as the two middle-aged men raised eyebrows at him. David reached into the inner pocket of his vest while combing his other hand through disheveled hair. A badge was presented, and the officers stepped aside to allow his passage. Gossipy whispers and the loud click of a camera shutter echoed behind him.

The bustle of the outside world fell away as David approached a ring of serious men wearing dark hats and hovering around a square of yellow crime scene markers. One of them - thin and bespectacled with a dark mustache - saw him nearing and broke away to meet him.

"Homicide?" asked the stranger.

"Yeah," he replied, "I'm David Greenwood - from Detective Marter's team."

"Lester," was the response he received, "From organized crime, as is everybody else here. We've had the scene secured for a while, but the word from up top has been to hold off on the body until you get first crack. Fair warning," Lester said placidly, "Some people ain't too happy about your case getting mixed up in ours."

David nodded in resigned comprehension.

When they arrived at the edge of Brooklyn's newest gruesome display, both men stopped for just a moment to gaze in sadness at the horror before them: the corpse of a boy of no more than nine short years lying prone and mangled on the street. Multiple stab wounds were crusted over with blood and otherwise pristine clothes were darkened with the same. The child's dull, unseeing eyes were still open.

This first sight of the body was a moment that seemed to mute all sounds and make all the rest of the planet unimportant in the face of such a tragedy - after all, who might the boy have been in years to come? A baker? A writer? An artist? - but it was merely a moment and nothing more. The bright flash of a police photographer's camera snapped David out of it as Lester lifted the yellow crime scene tape and gestured for him to duck underneath it.

Lester did not follow him into the square.

David knelt at the body's side. He swallowed a wave of revulsion when the coppery scent of coagulating blood reached his nose.

Quickly and methodically, he analyzed the body's appearance, comparing it to the modus operandi that he had long since memorized. Multiple lacerations around the wrists and ankles, messy and almost careless. A single, perfectly straight, surgically clean slice across the throat. Loose-fitting, neatly pressed, stark white clothes that could have been mistaken for the victim's church outfit should the viewer not know any better.

Although there was little doubt in his mind as to what he would find, David still had to check one last thing. With gloved fingers, he grasped the victim's chin and ran his thumb over the lower lip. Then, he pulled his hand back and pressed his fingertips together.

Sticky.

He sighed.

"Hey," a voice said from above.

David glanced up and blinked in surprise to find a brown-skinned woman standing over him with a bulky camera slung over her shoulder. She was dressed in the kind of frock coat and dark, knee-length skirt that seemed to be in style among New York City women at the moment, but her boots were well-scuffed and looked like those of any man on the police force. Most of her face was shadowed by the brim of a fedora hat sitting atop her head, but David could clearly make out dark bangs over her forehead and the downturned curve of her mouth.

The woman groused, "You're in my shot."

"Oh," replied David penitently, "My apologies, ma'am. I'm finished here anyhow, so I'll just get out of your hair."

He ducked back underneath the crime scene tape and turned left in the direction of Lester. He faltered slightly when he saw that the other officer was occupied by the attention of a stern, gray-haired man who exuded an aura of authority.

David hesitated to interrupt their conversation, but it was the sergeant supervisor who met his eyes and waved him over with two fingers.

"Homicide, right?" asked the man in a way that wasn't truly that of an inquiry, "What can I do to help get you out of here quickly?"

"Uh, I," David stuttered, "I need the vic's name. A-and anything you might have on his routines or his family?"

"Tall order, sonny," scoffed the sergeant, "Kid's surname was Dolph. His daddy's high up in the mob. We got a whole filing cabinet of what you're looking for back at the precinct - and neither you nor that squirrely boss of yours is authorized to see a word of it."

David balked, "But-"

The older man spoke over him, "But the chief wants good reviews on this Broadway show of Marter's, so we'll share information on a strictly need-to-know basis. You get no more than what we decide. Stop by our floor after lunch to talk to a liaison. Till then, scram. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," said David quickly.

There came no acknowledgment of his response. The sergeant simply turned and walked away, going on to bark orders at a pair of officers on the other side of the road.

Lester, whose presence had been forgotten up to this point, took the opportunity to say, "Don't let Aldrin get to you too much. He's like that with just about everybody. Comes from being ex-army, I think."

"Uh, okay," responded David, "Thanks? I guess I'll see you later."

"Possibly," Lester floated back at him idly as he became distracted by his superior's shouting, "Salutations, Greenwood."

On his way back toward the barricade, David was, to his surprise, approached by the photographer from earlier.

"So," said the woman blandly as she walked toward him, "What? Is one minute all it takes to ID your perp?"

"To confirm what Detective Marter wanted me to, yes, miss, it's enough time," answered David.

She raised a questioning eyebrow at him, "I'm 'miss' and not 'ma'am' now?"

David stumbled, "Well, er, from eye-level, you look a lot closer to my age. But that's not to say you looked old from the ground, I mean..."

She seemed amused.

"You're a fresh one, aren't you? New to police work?"

"Not exactly," he replied while tugging self-consciously at the tie around his neck, "I've been on the force nearly three years now."

Recognition lit in her eyes.

"That makes you David Greenwood then, doesn't it? Marter's junior snoop prodigy."

Frowning in slight discomfort, David said, "Well, yes. That'd be me."

"My condolences," she dryly offered, briefly tipping her hat to him, "For the spectacular trainwreck your career is heading toward. Say hi to Chapel Jack for me if Marter ever catches him."

With that, she clapped him hard on the shoulder and left, her boots heavy on the pavement.

* * *

Max slammed on the brakes of his bike, rubber tires screeching against the pavement. He pulled up to the ornate gate of the well-kept brick townhouse at the end of the road and hopped off, leaving the bike leaning against the wrought-iron fencing. Dusting off his hands on his dark pants and straightening the collar of his shirt as he always did whenever he was in this nice neighborhood with new electric lights and neat window boxes, he took in a deep breath.

Then, squinting up at an open window on the building's third floor, he gave a sharp wolf-whistle whose shrill echoes traveled all the way back down the block. Once finished, he crossed his arms and waited.

A fierce-eyed young girl whose curly hair was tied back in pigtails poked her head out of the window. The puffy sleeves of her summer-blue dress and the brim of her matching sun hat waved gently in the breeze. She looked down at Max, gave him a wild grin, and then immediately ducked back inside.

A few minutes later, the richly azure front door of the house slammed open, and a child dressed in a baggy, white shirt and dark overalls came sauntering out. Unkempt bangs stuck out from underneath a grey newsboy cap that matched Max's own. The band-aid over the left cheek made it clear that this child was the same girl from the window rather than a brother.

She stopped to grab another bicycle that had been leaning by the steps of her home before rushing out the gate.

"Where to today, Max?" she asked mischievously as she swung a leg around her bike, the sun glinting off the spokes of her tires and the teeth of her smile.

He answered with an equally impish grin as he rolled up his sleeves, "Neil says there's a farmer's market by the south beach. I got two hours before Campbell takes roll, so whaddya say we meet him there and have some fun, Nikki?"

They biked the twenty minutes that it took to get to Brighton Beach and met Neil at their usual spot: underneath the awning of the New Brighton Theater.

The first thing that Max blurted out after getting off his bike was, "Where the fuck did you get that?"

Neil was clutching in his hand a crisp one-dollar bill.

Hapless and bewildered, the pale boy shrugged, replying, "A lady walking by thought I was homeless or something."

With a bark of laughter, Nikki pointed out, "Well, you can't blame her!"

For indeed, the boy's scruffy hair, grease-smudged face, and dirty, disheveled clothing made him out to be something of a pauper. This general appearance of poverty was exacerbated by his thin, gangly frame and wide eyes, which together made him look perpetually young and hungry.

"Come on," Neil complained, "I work in my dad's print shop. You know it's hard to keep everything clean in there," he paused for a moment, "And I don't really know what to do with a dollar today. Why don't you take it, Max?"

Max defiantly refused, "Hell, no. Your broke, Jewish ass earned it fair and square. Now c'mon, let's go steal some shit."

And so for an hour, the three children together hustled and harassed and wrought blissful havoc on the south side of Brooklyn.

* * *

The blinds of the large windows behind him were shut such that only thin lines of light snuck through the cracks between slats. With only a lamp in the corner and another on his desk, closed blinds made the office significantly dimmer, but for privacy's sake, it was well worth it.

"I don't particularly appreciate you bringing this business here, Miss D'arcangeles," said the terse voice of Cameron Campbell.

The dark-skinned woman sitting across from him with the demure, light-colored eyes and the unsettling smile played idly with the knot of her white scarf. She shook a lock of honey-colored hair out of her face before matching his gaze.

She responded, "Well, I'm terribly sorry to be an inconvenience, but there are a lot of things in the world that we don't appreciate. Murder, for instance."

Campbell tensed.

She laughed, her voice high and bell-like and cold, "Oh, please, that's not a threat. You see, there's been a high-profile incident very close to my family home. The police are crawling around in sensitive territory. We'd like to move some of our operations elsewhere for the time being, that's all; it just so happens that you owe us."

Agitatedly, Campbell protested, "This is an orphanage!"

"As if that ever stopped you," replied the woman amusedly as she got up to leave, "Have everything ready by tomorrow afternoon. And if you're really worried about your children, don't be. The little ones here won't ever have to know what happens in the dark, if you're careful. As far as they're concerned, it's a laundry service and nothing more."

She picked up her leather purse from the floor and pulled out a compact mirror, making a slow and deliberate show of checking her makeup while Campbell engaged in deep breathing exercises.

Through clenched teeth, the man at last answered, "Fine. With the understanding that this is temporary, fine. One summer only - you tell your father that. Capiche, D'arcangeles?"

"Of course," she said as she got up and walked toward the exit. Then, with her daintily manicured hand on the doorknob, she smiled at him pleasantly and added, "And please, Cameron, call me Jen."

And with the click of heeled slippers on hardwood planks and the swish of a violet dress, she was gone.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I'm also publishing this fic on Archive Of Our Own under the same title.

This story has been based on the Camp Camp fan art and AU concept of the absolutely amazing artist Konoira. Check out his work on DeviantArt or on Tumblr even if you don't read the rest of this fic!


	2. Sandwiches

**Chapter 2: Sandwiches**

It was the peak of the lunch rush all across the city. Shops and street vendors alike were seeing their edible products fly off the counters. Cash register bells rang like wind chimes in a hurricane as the pitter-patter of coins changing hands played the rhythm of a lively jazz song. Small gatherings of friends and co-workers formed naturally at sidewalk benches and outdoor tables and on the steps of large buildings, all of which numbered many. Thousands upon thousands of voices chorused over New York's off-beat harmony.

"Have you read that Gatsby book? It's so underrated, I swear-"

"Can you believe he said that? What an asskissing-"

"Quarter a dozen! Buy some croissants! Quarter a-"

"-looking like a real bull market, I think-"

"You should wear the other dress sometime, darling-"

"-blind pig callin' itself 'The Only Bar' across from-"

And so on and so forth.

* * *

In south Brooklyn, the deli cashier, a large boy with a bulbous nose and a rough voice for his age, scratched at his hair net as he totaled up the order of a regular customer.

He stated, "That'll be $2.20, sir."

David handed over three single bills and took from the wooden counter an unmarked paper bag from which the sweet and savory smell of freshly toasted sandwiches drifted. As the cashier whose name tag read 'G. Nurf' slowly counted out the change, David engaged in light conversation.

"You know," the man said with a sunny smile, "I'm always disappointed not to see more customers here. You guys make such great food!"

In this case, 'more customers' would have meant any other customers at all, for in this cozy, family-owned eating establishment that was higher-ceilinged than it was wide, there seemed to be no people present but for the employee manning the cash register and David himself. The handful of tables squeezed into the eating area were completely bare of patronage, and the well-polished floor reflected only two pairs of shoes among pacific blue walls and brass lantern lights.

"Ah, come on, David," replied the boy in a gruffly amused manner, "It's no big deal. You know we do most of our business through catering. But Ma will be happy to hear about the food."

Coins were slid across the counter on top of a business card, and both were scooped up.

"Well then," as he tucked the small items into the front pocket of his light overcoat, David optimistically declared, "I'll just have to keep passing on the word about this place!"

"You do that," Nurf rolled his eyes as a fond smile pulled up at the corners of his mouth.

Brief goodbyes were exchanged, and David exited the shop. The door squeaked as it swung shut behind him and cut short the farewell dinging of the bell above the frame.

It was a mostly residential neighborhood that he stepped out into. The street was narrow, and the sidewalk even more so, which was why it was convenient that there was never much in the way of traffic there at this time of day. It was a quick journey to the Brooklyn transit subway entrance that happened to be just two and a half blocks away around the corner.

* * *

Two bicycles were a tarnished bronze color and of identical make, distinguishable from each other only by the colors of their baskets, green and grey. The last was a shiny silver with a blue bauble hanging off the right handle. All three were propped in front of the entrance to a narrow alleyway as if to fence it off from outsiders. Within this shady spot between two concrete buildings sat Max, Nikki, and Neil, dirt clinging to their clothes like dust to bookshelves.

The former two children were snickering as the latter looked on in exasperation.

"I can't believe," said Neil, "That you guys walked right out of there with all that in your pockets."

Max's newsboy cap was laying upside down on the ground between them. It overflowed with what he and Nikki had placed inside: at least a dozen different kinds of cheap candies and baked goods which were, apparently, liberated without pay.

"Shows what you know, poindexter," sneered Max.

"Yeah. Suck it up and believe!" shouted Nikki triumphantly.

She threw a cube of caramel at him. It bounced off his shoulder and hit the ground. Three pairs of eyes followed the candy as it rolled between the wheels of their bicycles and out onto the sidewalk. The sugary treat came to a stop directly in front of a large pair of boots from which the children looked up to find an adult in a light overcoat staring down at them.

Fully aware that from the stranger's perspective in the noontime sun she looked like a grungy street rat in the alley shadows, Nikki bared her teeth and adopted the most sinister expression she could muster. She declared demandingly, "Hey, mister, the doctor said I have rabies. Got any change?"

The simple response of a curious blink disappointed her considerably.

"Lay off," said Max with an eyeroll directed at the man rather than the girl, "It's only David," he lazily waved, "Hey."

Nikki blinked in surprise even as Neil proceeded to greet the newcomer as well, "Hi, David."

"Hi, Max. Neil," acknowledged David, "And who might you be?"

Aggression no longer rising but still not quelled, she tugged her cap slightly lower over her forehead and spat a glob of phlegm into the dirt between her feet before she answered, "Nikki. I've heard about you from Max."

"All good things, I hope. Nicky, eh? That's an excellent name," responded the man as a wry grin began tugging at his mouth. His next words, dry and observational and touched by a hint of reprimand, were for all of them, "I see you three have been busy today."

Unsure of exactly how to reply, Nikki looked at her friends. Neil glanced guiltily at his shoes, lips clamped tight; Max seemed ready to protest but never had the chance. David preempted any possible argument by lifting up a bottom-heavy paper sack so that it could be seen over the bicycles.

He asked invitingly, "Anyone care to join me for lunch?"

The four of them found a sidewalk bench not far from the alley. The children towed their bicycles with them, the clicking sound of turning spokes accompanying the group as they traveled the short distance. It was after they arrived at the bench that David removed one sandwich from the deli bag for himself and then offered the rest to them. Neil was the last to take a seat on the far side of the bench, opposite Nikki, whose mouth was already stuffed full of turkey on rye and whose pockets bulged with stolen sweets. The bench creaked slightly as he added his weight on top of it.

"What's with the tin foil ones?" questioned Neil when the bag was passed to him.

"Oh, Nurf's deli uses it when they run out of waxed paper. They're all the same sandwich," said David, "No food allergies, right?"

With a shake of his head, Neil took from the sandwich sack one of two items wrapped in crinkly foil rather than colorful paper. He, for one, also remembered to express customary gratitude as he handed the bag back to the person to which it belonged.

Neil stated, "Thanks for the food, David."

"It's no problem," was the modest reply from the red-haired man, "Two leftover sandwiches should be plenty for work, anyway."

Through a half-chewed bite of meat and cheese, Max commented, "Who're you bribing this time?"

David lightly rebuked, "Swallow your food, Max," before answering, "And it's not a bribe; it's an incentive. Most people are willing to give me a chance, even if they don't like my boss. A good meal just helps things along."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

The man only grinned and laughed in response, which resulted in Max adopting a severe scowl.

The remainder of their shared lunchtime passed jovially. Max attempted to explain the wonders of dark chocolate to a skeptical Nikki. David inquired after how it was that Max and Neil had met Nikki and was told that they had shared classes together the past school year. Neil briefly rambled on about the upgrade he wanted to make to his father's shop's printing press. Once each person finished their sandwich, the stolen candy was divided among the three children - David was offered a share, which he politely declined and made no further remark on.

Not long after that, it came time to part ways.

"You kids stay out of trouble, okay?" was David's kind request.

Max retorted, "No promises," as he and his friends mounted their bikes and rode westward toward the center of Brooklyn.

* * *

David traveled northward for two blocks more before rounding the corner of an old, brick building in whose shade there sat a young person around perhaps twelve years of age. The boy was dressed in a wrinkled shirt and a pair of dark pants that looked an inch or two too short for him. His shoes were oversized, and his suspenders were held together by safety pins. He had messy, caramel-colored hair and a smattering of freckles over the bridge of his slightly sunburned nose. The strap of a ratty, burlap satchel was slung across his chest, the bag itself hanging down his right side and half-full of blue flyers.

When the boy caught sight of David, he leapt to his feet and put on a wide, gap-toothed grin, his arms stretching lazily behind his head.

"Hey, David!" he greeted.

"Hi, Larry," replied the redhead genially, "How're you and your mother doing?"

Larry thumped a fist to his chest and proudly proclaimed, "I found work at the bike rental place!"

"Congratulations!" enthused David, "I knew you could do it."

"Uh-huh!" the boy rapidly continued, "And Mom's doing a lot better now - like, a million times better! She says she's gonna find a job too before the end of the month, and we'll work hard and earn money, and I can get new clothes, and we'll even move outta the tenement 'fore school starts again!"

"That's great!" was the response from David, "I'm glad things are turning around for you, Larry."

Larry nodded in elated agreement, his dark chocolate eyes gaining a challenging gleam as he exclaimed, "Yup! And guess what-"

\- One moment, Larry was several paces away, his stance speaking volumes about the amount of excitement and energy he had. The next, that taut energy had exploded into motion, and he was suddenly right in front of David and waving two dollars in his face. -

"I can start paying you back, like, right now!" blurted out the boy.

Astonished and taken aback, David found himself able to answer only with a simple, "What?"

Larry animatedly elaborated, "I kept the receipts from everything you helped me buy, and I did the math, and I owe you seven dollars and a dime! I can round it up to eight, 'cause that's how a loan works, right? O-or ten," his voice suddenly became more reserved, "Since you set me up with a Campbell program job, even though I'm not one of those orphans, and that's worth… like, a lot."

He seemed so eager to prove himself that David felt almost at a loss as to how he should respond. It took him several moments to find suitable words.

"Oh, Larry," he said softly, "When I helped you pay for those groceries and the medicine, that wasn't a loan."

The boy glanced down as he tugged one of his suspenders back to his shoulder from the elbow it had slipped onto. His hand traveled down the well-worn strap to where a metal clasp should have been instead of a safety pin. When he glanced back up at David, a large portion of the confidence in his expression had faded to be replaced by harrowing doubt. In his face was the familiar look of one accustomed to feeling downtrodden and helpless.

"At least," David corrected himself, "Not a loan in the typical sense."

Now confused, Larry queried, "What d'ya mean?"

David set the deli bag down on the pavement and knelt so that he was closer to eye-level with Larry. With him on his knees and the boy still standing, David had to look up slightly to meet the brunet's gaze.

"The way I see it," explained David, "I did you a service by helping you out. So, what you can do to pay me back is do a couple of small favors in return."

"Like what?"

He grinned dopily as he reached into the deli bag and answered, "Like taking one or two of these sandwiches off my hands. I have a few too many, and I don't want them to go to waste. It's hard to get rid of them when my co-workers have already eaten lunch."

Larry paused in consideration, biting his lower lip in apparently deep thought.

Then, the boy nodded a chipper agreement, exclaiming, "I can do that! But," he asserted conditionally, "Only if you let me buy it off you."

Picking out the less crumpled of the one-dollar bills in his hand, Larry held it out toward David while tucking the other one away in a pocket.

David took the currency from Larry and handed him a sandwich encased in a foil wrapper.

"We have a deal," he said to the boy, being sure to tack on, "So long as a dollar is worth at least two sandwiches."

He grabbed the paper bag and angled it toward himself, blocking Larry's view as he shoved his other hand in after whatever remained inside. His fingers found the edge of the covering of the last sandwich. With careful haste, he tucked the dollar bill inside the brightly colored paper and folded the wrapper back up as neatly as he could manage with one hand.

David offered the bundle to Larry.

With a snort of amusement, the boy remarked, "That one's the same color as your hair."

"Yeah? Well, this blindingly red one has onions on it," he countered to Larry, who made a disgusted face and an exaggerated gagging sound as he took the wrapped sandwich. David emphasized, "Make sure your mother gets it. And remember to tell her how you bought it from me, alright?"

Larry's keen reply went, "Sure."

"Thank you, Larry," acknowledged David gladly. Then, a moment of inspiration struck him, and he solicited in a more resolute tone, "Do you think you could do another favor for me, Larry? This one's a bit bigger."

"Absolutely! But what is it?" came the curious inquiry.

With a shallow dive into his coat pocket, David found the business card from Nurfington's Delicatessen. He pressed it into Larry's left hand, sliding the card between the red-wrapped sandwich and the base of the boy's thumb. Its geometric, art deco typeface and simple, black boss spelled out as plainly as possible the name and address of the small establishment from which he'd purchased a half dozen sandwiches not so long ago.

"While you're working at the bike rental this summer, tell the people who say they'll be going to Brighton Beach that they should visit this restaurant while they're there. Let them know that it's a little bit out of the way, but the food's well worth the trip. You should recommend the chicken soup or the Philly cheese steak if anyone asks. Can you do this for me, Larry?"

A new sense of purpose seemed to light upon the boy's shoulders as he tucked the card and the sandwich away in his satchel with the leaflets.

Wearing a bright grin that put center-stage the gap in his front teeth, Larry gave him an optimistic thumbs up and proclaimed, "Of course! I gotcha covered, David."

He set a hand gently on the boy's shoulder and replied in all earnestness, "Thanks a million."

"It's no problem, David. I need to finish delivering these flyers to the ferry soon, but here, you should have one."

As Larry took a few moments to peel one blue handout out of a bundle of several dozen, David proceeded to stand up - partly because the conversation seemed to be nearing a close, but mostly because his legs were beginning to hurt. Concrete was not exactly a soft surface for anyone to rest their knees on.

He took the flyer, and the two of them said their farewells to each other. David took care to remind Larry that the boy was still welcome to come find him if he needed help with anything. Then, their paths diverged: Larry took off down an eastward side street while David continued north. The man happened to briefly stop by a public waste bin located just a block from where he had come across Larry. There, since he had no real use for an advertisement, he considered throwing away the flyer. However, as he ran his thumb over the pale, winged logo of Hermes bike rental service, he decided instead to fold up the blue leaflet and tuck it into his pocket.

With a bounce in his gait and an empty paper bag in his hands, David went on his way, a fish among an ocean of his fellow New Yorkers.

* * *

The trio stopped in front of the steps to the orphanage, a large, brick townhouse that had been renovated and repurposed by Cameron Campbell years and years ago. Max had to make it back in time for the afternoon roll call, after all.

Standing one leg on the ground to balance herself and her stilled bike, Nikki asked Max, "Hey, you said that David's a cop, right?"

"Yeah."

"Does he get to catch bank robbers? Or interrogate people? Does he have a gun?"

With a snort of derisive laughter, Max answered, "David? Hell, no. He's just a pencil pusher for some beat detective nobody likes."

"Aw, well, that's boring," complained the disappointed girl.

"I know, right?"

Neil was looking at his wristwatch as he warned, "Nikki, we're both going to be late if we stick around much longer."

"Late? Crap!" exclaimed Nikki.

With the exchange of a few parting words to Max, Neil and Nikki continued onward toward their homes further west. A breeze was beginning to pick up, blowing hard enough to ruffle the branches of what few trees dotted the walkways and to sting the children's faces with specks of dust. Neil and Nikki split ways just a block after the Campbell orphanage, their only goodbyes to each other a brief, three-fingered salute.

After parting from Nikki, Neil biked as hastily as he could without abandoning caution; Nikki simply biked as fast as she could. They both had obligations to fulfill in their own lives, however dreadful each might consider the separate tasks ahead of them.

* * *

It was only when David reached the steps leading into the police station that he realized he probably should have taken the opportunity to toss the empty paper bag from the deli into the waste bin earlier. With a sidelong glance, he rolled up the bag and tucked it under his arm. Then he made his journey up the steps.

Inside the station, he headed immediately for the stairway tucked near the restrooms to the right. Two flights later, he was walking out onto the floor that housed Brooklyn's largest organized crime investigation unit.

A decent number of people seemed busy at work at their desks or at a wide corkboard full of documents, newspaper clippings, and photographs. David recognized the faces of a handful of officers who had been at the crime scene earlier that day, but he knew none of them by name. Neither Lester nor Sergeant Aldrin was anywhere in sight.

David was startled by a gruff shout of, "You, from homicide."

When he turned around, he was surprised to see standing in the staircase doorway the photographer woman who'd spoken to him at the crime scene. Her coat was gone, revealing her to be dressed in a simple, collared blouse and black tie with a burgundy vest.

"Ah, yes?" he responded.

"Sergeant says you're mine," she jerked a thumb toward the ceiling, indicating that they had another flight to travel up. She paused to ask, "What's with the bag?"

David answered with a recalcitrant smile, "Well, I meant to bring sandwiches, but it seems like they've disappeared on the way here. I'm just looking for a place to throw this away."

"Whatever," she rolled her eyes, "Just come with me."

"Alright," David followed her back into the stairwell. As they climbed, he inquired, "I'm sorry, miss, but I don't think I ever got your name."

Her flat response came without any shift of her gaze away from the direction she was going, "Gwen."


	3. Print

**Chapter 3: Print**

Coffee.

Paper.

Work.

From the Times and the Tribune to any number of Heralds and small publications, New York City had a voracious appetite for news and gossip. Weekly papers, daily papers, morning papers, evening papers - all were the stuff of a metropolitan culture whose heart beat to a cut-time metronome every hour of every day. The rapid clicking of fingers on typewriters, the flash and smoke of bulky cameras, the assembly line pace of phone calls and office deadlines. Radio talk and moving pictures were all well and good, but it was impossible to defeat the colossal hydra that was the sprawling empire of ink and paper.

Stories.

Scandal.

Life.

It all came hot off the presses every hour of every day.

* * *

The window display of the print shop whose grey sign read 'Samaritan' contained just a few things - a handful of glossy, black and white photographs of city landmarks, a framed certificate with the name Campbell embossed across it in forest green, five different local magazines, and one newspaper. The month-old newspaper, whose publication date said 09 May 1929, featured a front-page article debating the benefits and deficits of child labor. The magazines, all of which came from the past winter, had covers that displayed subjects ranging from potted plants to aviation to new novels by Brooklyn authors. The Campbell certificate next to them, yellowed around its corners, looked slightly dusty. Telling the precise age of the photographs seemed a practical impossibility.

Because he was wary of theft, Neil rolled his bike inside the store which, according to the sign on the door, was currently closed. His shoes, slightly damp from splashback as a result of riding through a large puddle, left prints on the vinyl floor tiles that were supposed to be black and white but were in reality shades of muddy grey. The bell above the entrance did not ring when he came in. As Neil locked the door behind him, he made a mental note to fix that.

None of the lights were turned on, but with the summer sun high in the sky, this was no trouble in the slightest. It also helped save a bit of money on electricity costs, which were already unusually high for the little shop due to the near-constant drain of the electric motor which powered the Rubel offset rotary press. Neil could hear the dull roar of the machine running even through the heavy door which separated the back room from the storefront.

"Dad?" he called out, "I'm back!"

No words came in response but for those that were mere echoes of his own voice.

He went behind the checkout counter to where a narrow staircase in the corner led upwards to living quarters. He shouted again, and again he received no reply.

With a heavy sigh, the boy walked to a spot next to the door to the back room. There, the flowering horn of a phonograph protruded out from a section of wall at what was head height for Neil. He turned to face it with a mechanical twist in his stance.

Almost reluctantly, he said into the horn, "Dad? Are you in the cellar - I mean, the dark room?"

There was an answer, albeit one that was slightly delayed and extremely tinny-sounding, and it went, "Yeah, I'm down here, son. How was your little shindig with Max?"

His father's nasally voice sounded unusually muffled even through the homemade communication system.

"We went to the farmer's market you recommended. It was fun," noted Neil with meekness, "Are you... working on a new batch of photographs?"

"The Mexican set," came the ready response, "You just stay up top and man the rotary, alright, Neil? I'll shout if I need anything."

Neil's shoulders slumped in what could have been relief just as easily as disappointment.

He replied, "Sure thing, Dad. Remember to turn the ventilator on."

"Got it. Love you, son."

"I love you too."

And the conversation was over.

As far as the decades-old rotary press in the back room was concerned, there was really no 'manning' required. Not after the years of careful maintenance, modification, and innovation that he had applied to it. Neil glanced to where his bicycle rested between the stationery rack and the ink pen display, and he entertained, for a brief moment, the thought of simply up and leaving, of riding far, far away, of pedaling as hard and as fast as he could to Elsewhere and slacking off under blue skies for an hour more or until his father came out of the cellar.

But the brief moment was indeed brief, and the passing thought indeed fleeting. So, instead, he picked up a stool and directed his attention toward the malfunctioning bell above the shop door.

* * *

Nikki threw her bicycle to the ground next to the steps to her front door. Then, she forewent the front entrance itself and opted to sprint to the ground floor bathroom window instead. The glass panels were open and unlocked, exactly as she had left them. She clambered up and in, knees briefly scraping against stone. Her shoes were the last things to disappear from outside view.

In the marble-tiled bathroom, Nikki flipped the light switch before shutting the window from which she'd entered and drawing the blue curtains over it. Then, she threw open the cabinet below the sink and yanked out her blue dress and hat from earlier that morning. She changed quickly and shoved her street clothes into the back of the same cabinet, kicking its door shut with a foot encased in a blue-heeled slipper.

Nikki turned on the faucet, and water gushed out of it into the sink basin. Cupping her palms beneath the falling stream, she caught a handful of chill liquid and tossed it into her face. The use of a nearby towel dried her off and removed the dust and dirt that had gotten smudged onto her skin. She hastily redid her pigtails using the bands that had been worn on her wrist while she was out on the town. With a glance in the mirror and a repositioning of her sun hat, Nikki deemed her appearance acceptable.

She left the bathroom.

Her mother, all dolled up in a frilly dress and neat makeup, was coming toward her from up the hallway.

"Nikki!" exclaimed the woman, "There you are! Come here, we're already running late."

"Okay, Mom," responded the girl politely, "Are we taking the subway?"

"To Manhattan? Heavens no, that thing is filthy. There's a car coming to pick us up any minute now. We need to get outside, sweetie."

"Okay, Mom."

They went out the front door. A shiny Lincoln was just beginning to crest the tall hill that made this part of the neighborhood feel like it was enclosed in a bubble-world of its own.

"Remember, Nikki," said her mother, "When they ask about coming to work with me, you say that you love getting to see what it's like backstage, especially with the musicians. Tell them about your favorite spot in the orchestra pit and learning music on the piano," she bent down to be eye-level with her daughter and, with a twinkle in her eyes, added brightly, "Chin up, sweetie. We're going on the radio! I know that this isn't your kind of thing, but put up with it for just a few hours, alright? For Mommy. This'll be all over the papers tomorrow."

Nikki put on a passable smile and nodded silently.

The woman distractedly ran the fingers of her right hand through one of her daughter's messy pigtails.

She declared, "I'll fix your hair in the car. You'll look nice with braids."

"Okay, Mom."

* * *

The first thing that Gwen did when she and David entered a room on the fourth floor was throw a gun at his head. Granted, it was his own gun, and it was holstered, but still. A gun. Thrown at his head.

"Your boss left that here for you."

Almost fumbling the armament as he caught it, David tripped and reclaimed his balance by grabbing the handle of a nearby filing cabinet that was, thankfully, locked. Once he was steady on his feet again, he clipped the gun and the holster to his belt.

He queried, "Detective Marter was here?"

"Yup," answered Gwen with folded arms and a cross expression, "He charged in armed to the teeth and looking tipsier than the leaning tower of Pisa. Was looking for you. The guy scared a visiting kid and pissed off Sergeant Aldrin. You missed him by maybe ten minutes."

"... I'm sorry. For the trouble he's caused, I mean. He's… odd, sometimes."

Gwen rolled her eyes, sighing dismissively, "Forget about it. Just make yourself at home."

David sat down in a creaky chair and tried to take in his surroundings.

The room was technically spacious, but the police-yellow walls were lined with so many boxes and filing cabinets that the place felt cramped and attic-like. A single window let in a generous amount of afternoon light through its half-slanted shutters, enough so that the electric lamps high up in the wall corners were not yet necessary. Two cluttered desks on adjacent sides of the room held veritable mountains of paper and miscellaneous scrap. A third desk, placed in the center of the room before the window, was kept marginally tidier. It also held the camera that Gwen had brought to the crime scene that morning.

There was, besides the entryway the two young adults had just stepped through, one other way out of the office. It was a hefty-looking door on the wall opposite the window, a door that, through logical reasoning, must have led to an interior room. David got up and approached it.

"Don't go in there," warned Gwen blandly as she adjusted her hat, "You'll probably trip over a jug of borax or something else toxic."

David turned away from the mysterious interior door which was no longer quite so mysterious.

He asked in surprise, "You have a dark room all the way up here?"

"Yeah, Sherlock. Where else?"

Shrugging, David replied, "In the basement, I guess? Wouldn't that be less light, underground?

"Basement's for the shooting range."

"Oh, right," he paused awkwardly, "Sorry. I don't know this station very well. I work from the outpost a few blocks east."

She scoffed, "With the traffic cops? Marter is such a wackjob."

David did not argue.

Gwen barked, "Help me clear the table, green-eyes."

Together, they cleared off one of the small tables that Gwen dragged out of the corner. A great many old film cartridges, coffee-stained folders, and crinkly food wrappers were either set aside or thrown away.

When the wooden surface was at last clean, Gwen unrolled a map of Brooklyn over the table, and David set paperweights on top of it. The woman clicked a retractable pen and circled the east Brooklyn, pierside, residential street where the crime scene was undoubtedly still being cleaned up.

"Here," she said, "Is where the body was found. The entire neighborhood's mob-owned. A couple of their hitters even live there, the victim's father included."

"What about the mother?" asked David.

"Dead," replied Gwen, "Complications from childbirth, according to hospital records."

With a look of consideration, David nodded, "Mmkay. And his routine?"

"The victim walked the family's dogs every morning," she stated as she drew a line from Dulce street to a small public park nearby.

The pen in her hand circled the area. Then, she backtracked, making another line from Dulce to the nearest subway station.

Gwen further explained, "On weekday afternoons, he took the transit to here," she circled another subway station in central Brooklyn, "Which left him in walking distance of Lilac Academy for the summer art program."

On the map of the borough, she circled the square that stood for the aforementioned school.

With a wry, bittersweet grimace, David said, "Lilac, huh? That place brings back memories."

"Familiar with it?"

"I went there for school."

"Asshole," quirking a derisive eyebrow at him, Gwen assumed, "Rich family?"

"Campbell orphan," he corrected plainly.

That, of possible responses, gave her pause. The deadpan mask of her face cracked first into a look of surprise followed by pity and then by regret. For what felt like a long while, she simply stared at David, who stared back without judgment or accusation.

Gwen was the one to break the moment of connection between them. She turned, removing the hat from her head. She set the fedora over the camera on her desk, the device lying next to a burgundy-colored mug into which she dropped her ink pen. The writing utensil rattled upon impact with the ceramic cup. Gwen looked out the office window, which revealed between the half-closed slats of a wooden shutter a cloud drifting over the distant Manhattan skyline across the water.

She turned to face David again.

"I'm sorry," she said at last, "I didn't know."

"Don't be," he replied kindly, "No one ever does."

Sighing, Gwen picked up a manila folder from her desk and handed it to him, proclaiming, "I was gonna give you hell before letting you have this, but here. Just take it. Consider it an apology for treating you like crap based on word of mouth and a bad day."

"Uh, thank you?" the words came stumbling from David's lips.

"Cheers," responded Gwen, lifting up the mug from her desk and almost taking a sip from it before the clicking end of a pen hit her teeth. She exclaimed, "Shit! This was my coffee."

David winced as much at the choice language as at the volume of her shout.

The pen was picked out of the cup, its melted, plastic components dripping a runny solution of black ink and black coffee as it was tossed into the wastebin next to Gwen's desk. The woman proceeded to glare into her mug as if to will the contaminants out of the hot drink.

Still feeling uncomfortably like an intruder in the yellow-walled office, David offered weakly, "Could I buy you a cup from the cafe down the block?"

Gwen slammed her mug onto her desk with much more force than was strictly necessary, huffing, "Fuck this and fuck that. You got anywhere to be in the next hour or so?"

"Er, not necessarily?"

"Great," she said as she picked up her hat and her coat, "Let's go to a bakery in Harlem. I'm buying."

* * *

Neil was oiling the chains on his bike when he heard a knocking sound from the other side of the Samaritan's locked door. He turned his head to see a blonde girl not much younger than himself standing just outside. Her ponytail waved in what must have been a powerful breeze out there.

Setting the oil canister down on the floor, Neil got up. He walked to the door, turned the lock, and pulled it open. The bell above the entryway dinged an indiscriminate welcome.

"Hi," the girl smiled at him before looking down to begin reading from the back of an index card gripped in her hands, "I'm Tabii, from the Flower Scouts Flower Emporium. We have moved our place of business and are changing the delivery arrangement. I'm here to pick up our usual order of stat-ion-neery."

Blinking a few times in surprise and confusion, Neil eventually responded, "You mean stationery, right? Like, pens and paper?"

"Yeah, that," nodded Tabii blankly.

"... Could I see that note card?" he asked.

Tabii handed it over without question, replying chipperly, "Sure thing!"

The handwriting on the bit of cardstock looped in a familiar style of cursive that he thought he recognized as that of the woman who owned the Flower Emporium, but there was still only one way to be sure. Neil gave the card a tentative sniff.

Lilacs.

He handed it back to Tabii, saying, "I'll get you the order. Come inside."

The door closed behind them.

Neil walked around the counter as Tabii took an interest in the magazine rack that he had taken the opportunity to restock not too long ago.

Bending down behind the counter, Neil pulled a cardboard box off the bottom shelf. On the floor, he opened the container's unsealed top to double-check its contents. The flaps were pulled aside to reveal a notable quantity of cardstock, letterhead paper, and gold-leaf pens. One by one, each bundle of innocuous stationery supplies was lifted out and set aside on the gray-tiled floor. At what appeared to be the base of the box, there was a loop of grey ribbon. Neil tugged it, the false bottom lifting easily. Inside the secret compartment of the cardboard box, there was a large, plastic-wrapped brick of fine, white powder. It was labeled in thick, black marker:

'1 kilo'

Upon catching sight of this item, Neil immediately replaced the false bottom ribbon-side up and neatly packed the stationary on top of it once more. Then, he folded up the flaps of the box with all items inside and sealed the container with a few strips of masking tape from the dispenser bolted onto the countertop.

The box had a considerable heft to it, so Neil lifted from his legs and from his back as he raised the package up the four feet required in order to set it atop the counter. He wheezed a little as he let it go.

"Here's the usual order, Tabii," he declared.

The girl closed the magazine that she had been paging through and replaced it on the rack. She approached the counter with the same vacuous smile and head-in-the-clouds look in her eyes as she had worn since arriving at the door. An envelope was placed on the counter, and Neil pocketed it wordlessly. He tried not to take it as a personal insult when Tabii easily picked up the package that he had struggled to lift just moments earlier.

"Thank you," she said to him.

He nodded in response and then walked her to the exit, holding the door open as she left the store. He remained outside for a few moments to watch her leave. After Tabii disappeared from view, lost in the crowd of city-goers, Neil stepped back inside the shop and locked the door once again.

It seemed that all he had left to do was return to his bicycle maintenance, and so Neil was about to do just that when he heard his father's voice echoing out from the phonograph horn on the wall.

"Neil? Son, are you there?"

With great haste, the boy made his way to the device and spoke into it, "Yeah, I'm here, Dad. A Flower Scout just stopped by to pick up the stationery early."

"Did they? Huh. Did you verify?"

"Definitely lilacs, Dad."

"Great work then, son. Anyways, I was calling to ask for a hand down here. Bring some more supplies on your way, eh, Neil?"

He asked, "Did you run out of borax again?"

"Nah, I got plenty of that. I mean the stuff from the crate, Neil. We need to finish another batch before dinner to stay on schedule. Come help your old man out."

With that clarification, Neil replied resignedly, "Okay. On it, Dad."

"Love you, son."

"I love you too."

He pulled open the heavy door that led into the back room and walked inside. The door shut itself behind him. Darkness enshrouded the place, and the rumble of the printing press assaulted his ears. But with the flip of a light switch, the room suddenly became well-illuminated.

Running all the way down the longest wall, the paper-chugging behemoth that was the Rubel machine appeared to be a flurry of chaotic motion. Turning rollers, dripping ink, clanking gears. It relentlessly churned out glossy, quality-inked sheets of what was, upon closer inspection, an aviation magazine. A second device, one completely of Neil's own making, gathered the sequential pages of the publication together and stapled them down the vertical binding before dropping the freshly printed packet into a growing pile on top of the floor's grey tiles.

Neil ignored the machinery and instead approached the much less intimidating storage shelving unit opposite from it. There lay an open-topped crate on the bottom shelf, tucked away in the corner as far from the cellar trapdoor as it could be while still residing on the same side of the room. Neil reached for a number of items from the shelf directly above this crate.

A thick apron.

A pair of rubber gloves.

A gas mask with mirrored lenses.

With practiced motions, he buckled the gas mask so that it sat to the side of his face, tied the apron around his waist, and slipped the gloves over his hands. Then and only then did he reach inside the crate to remove one of several large, opaque jugs with faded lettering on its sticker. Much more akin to powder than to liquid, the sloshing movement of its contents felt. Neil set the container down on the ground and took a brief pause.

He turned to look toward the door to the storefront, and he thought about the unfinished work on his bicycle that remained there. Then, he stopped and refocused on the task at hand. With a weary sigh, Neil pulled the gas mask over his face, picked up the jug falsely labeled 'blue ink', and headed down into the cellar to help his father.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I drew a bit of art to accompany this chapter. It can be found on my Tumblr: risomnia (period) tumblr (period) com (slash) 167412247466 (slash) ccnoir-neil


	4. Bridges

**Chapter 4: Bridges**

There exists a world-famous landmark as iconic of New York City as the Empire State Building. It is the result of the work of many hundreds of people, but it stands also as a testament to the vision and will of three in particular:

John Roebling - a man enamored of suspension bridges and a man who died while still not finished drawing the basis for his grandest scheme yet. Washington Roebling - the son who took up his father's work as chief engineer only to catch a severe case of decompression sickness from laying foundations in the East River. And Emily Roebling - Washington's wife, who carried his torch in the field for some 14 years during his prolonged illness and personally oversaw the completion of the project for which her husband sacrificed his health and her father-in-law his life.

Towering, neo-Gothic archways upon which flocks of seabirds alight. An impressive web of steel wires off which sunlight gleams. Pavement over which some hundred thousand persons travel each week if not each day. The Brooklyn Bridge, once known as the East River Bridge, spans the breadth of the aforementioned river to connect the stepsister boroughs of Brooklyn and Manhattan. Like Atlas with the whole of the world upon his shoulders, it bears a great weight: etched into its foundations and its beams and its alcoves by time and by weather and by human hands, the scars of history.

* * *

"Welcome to Bon Voyage. Take a seat and I'll be with you in a little bit," said the waitress, a very tall and startlingly brawny African-American woman.

The acrylic-top tables were polished to the smoothest shine he might ever have seen at an eating establishment, and the wooden floor was equally spotless. The windows were so free of smudges and scratches that one might not have known them to be there at all if it was not for the reflections visible in the glass. David almost asked who it was that cleaned the place so as to compliment them on taking pride in their work; however, he had a feeling that whatever truce or budding friendship it was that seemed to be taking shape between him and Gwen would not benefit from proactiveness in this field of inquiry.

There was a radio at the little corner booth of the diner-like bakery that Gwen shoved him into. He had tried to claim the seat further from the door but had been cut off by Gwen throwing her hat onto that side of the table. She ordered for both of them while he fiddled with the dials of the machine. The waitress came and left as the voices of various men with newscaster accents faded in and out, small bursts of static burning between each of them.

"-strong winds predicted for the NYC region. If you look-"

"-here with us also is her daughter Nicolette, who tells us that the-"

"-financial stock of the _Times_ has been rising, but the fastest growing publication this year is undoubtedly the _Icarus_ , which has-"

"-breaking news that the serial murderer Chapel Jack has struck yet again in New York City."

David froze.

"The body was discovered earlier this morning by a postman doing mail rounds in east Brooklyn. The victim this time? An eight-year-old boy last seen by his painting instructor yesterday afternoon."

Gwen looked at him with a combination of pity and disapproval. Although still stunned and perhaps a little mesmerized, David tore his gaze away from the device to momentarily meet her eyes. Neither of them made a move to turn off the broadcast. She sighed and looked away, occupying her field of view with the sight of an African-American couple three booths down receiving a single root beer float and multiple plates of custard pie.

"A source from the coroner's office claims that the time of death was at approximately six AM. We have been unable to reach Detective Quentin Marter for confirmation of this."

With the way that the man and the woman looked into each other's eyes with the most stupidly content grins on their faces, it was quite clear that they were in love.

"The NYPD has cordoned off the side street where the victim was killed, and officers have been combing the area for witnesses."

They were both dressed in the same shade of blue and wore wire-rimmed glasses, the woman's lenses oval-shaped and the man's rectangular. They were holding hands as they sipped from the same root beer float through two separate straws. Gwen could see the gold wedding bands decorating their ring fingers. It was a heartwarming thing to observe a pair of individuals so happy together, so blissful, carefree, and untroubled.

"If anyone listening out there has information, please contact your nearest police station as soon as possible. We'll be coming back in a few moments with a report on the mayor's newest-"

David finally shut off the radio himself. He and Gwen then sat in gloomy silence as they waited for their food to arrive.

.

.

.

The waitress came bearing sustenance. She brought with her two slices of blueberry pie, a chocolate scone, a sweetmeat bun, and a creamy, unsweetened coffee. Gwen claimed all but for one of the pie slices, shoving the lone plate pastry and the fork that accompanied it toward David. Whereas she practically inhaled her food, he ate slowly and deliberately, making full use of the utensil and napkins provided. If she were not too hungry to care, Gwen might have felt like a slob in comparison.

"You know that your scone isn't going anywhere, right?" chuckled David with a hint of mirth in his voice.

"Wrong," Gwen retorted before she took another large bite of the cocoa-sweetened baked good, "It's going in my stomach. God, I haven't eaten since yesterday."

Her companion's expression morphed into one of curious concern as he asked, "Really? Why?"

She chewed and swallowed prior to answering, "All-nighter. The sergeant wanted me to develop a couple sets of photos that one of the guys took during a stakeout, and then there were evidence processing forms to fill out. I was supposed to go home this morning, but that kid's body turned up."

Sympathetically, David said, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be," shrugged Gwen, "It's decent work and half-decent overtime, even if my supervisor is the one to get most of the credit on paper."

"Oh," replied David, "So… that wasn't your office, earlier?"

Adopting a sharp look in her eyes, the woman groused, "It's mine in all but name. The last time that Harper Weisz stepped into the dark room, the precinct was being snowed in."

"Harper… Weisz?"

"My supervisor," she deadpanned.

With an apologetic smile, David confessed, "Of course. Sorry. The name seems a little familiar, but I can't quite place it."

Rolling her eyes in what was frustration directed toward her boss rather than her current company, Gwen scoffed, "No surprise there. Boring hair, boring face, boring clothes. Blends into the station like furniture. Does about as much work as the furniture, too. But hey, enough about my problems. What's it like for you on the Chapel case?"

The couple who had been sitting near them were long-finished with their food and just departing the establishment. The front door swung quietly shut behind them on a well-oiled hinge, cutting off the city-scented breeze that had blown in while it was open. The one and only waitress who had been spotted in the restaurant was currently somewhere in the kitchen in the back, invisible and inaudible to the pair of remaining patrons. In short, the place was empty but for Gwen and David. If a pin were to drop in that moment, the noise would have deafened.

Hesitation pressing him backward, David admitted, "I don't know if I can talk about it. They've wanted the details locked down ever since Detective Marter caught those copycats."

"Ah," she sipped at her coffee and nodded in dry understanding, "No gossiping with anybody outside of Marter's gang. Got it. Isn't that a bit of an echo chamber, though? With all half dozen of you or however many it is."

"A half dozen?" he grimaced, "At this point, it's just him and me."

Gwen set her drink down and demanded, "Explain."

Appearing downcast, David elaborated, "When Detective Marter became the lead on the investigation, the commissioner transferred five officers from another precinct over to him. He wanted fresh perspectives on what was suddenly a case with potential. I was in that first batch of assistants. But he..."

He paused.

Attentively, she cajoled, "Go on."

David shifted in his seat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. A loose bit of hair fell over his forehead, and he idly swept it back into place. He clasped his hands together in front of him nervously.

He continued, saying, "Everything I've heard about Detective Marter says that he was always abrasive, but after the Sparrow murders made the Chapel case so... public, things got really bad. He drove out all the other officers and the people who replaced them, and they all went on to spread stories and rumors. Well, the one about the meat hook and the squirrel is actually true, but… anyway, nobody wants to work with him now."

"Nobody except you," observed Gwen astutely.

She took another sip of her coffee. Its heat nearly scalded her tongue, but even on summer days, that was how she preferred it.

With a lopsided, half-shy grin and matching shrug, David replied, "I guess I have a higher tolerance for bitter personalities than most people."

They sat together in silence again, but this time the absence of sound was more comfortable, amicable, companionable. Gwen swallowed a few more gulps of her coffee and polished off her chocolate scone. David finished his slice of pie.

Having nothing in front of him to occupy himself with any longer, David began to feel slightly bothered by the quietness of their forum. He looked at the radio again, its smooth, wooden frame and petite dials seemingly inviting use. There was a music station he knew of that usually played the likes of Duke Ellington at this time of day, but he did not yet know whether or not Gwen was the sort of person who minded jazz. The dilemma of whether or not to ask the woman about her musical tastes occupied his thoughts for a while, but the inquiry was never given voice.

She suddenly spoke up, "They say you're a dolt with a college education and unrealistic expectations."

A bright gleam in his eyes, David countered, "I'm optimistic."

"Or naive."

"Depends on your perspective."

"True," she admitted.

Silence returned once again. Gwen began the arduous work of consuming her own slice of pie. David looked out the window.

The bakery was located in the middle of a large city block, and so the only buildings visible from within the establishment were those directly across from it. He could see a squat, proud-looking barbershop, an aged convenience store, and a stoic, forbearing hardware store. The couple who had sat in the Bon Voyage bakery near Gwen and David not too long ago walked down the street, the man and the woman each carrying a paper bag stuffed to the brim with groceries. Laying on the far side of the road at the edge of the sidewalk was a desk-sized puddle of water. Its smooth, immaculate surface reflected the blue, summer sky over Manhattan which was otherwise blocked from view by constructs of brick and stone.

"They got it wrong, you know," David stated out of nowhere as he continued staring into the middle distance.

Gwen responded, "Hm?"

He turned to face her, and the look in his eyes was so sad and serious that she almost had to wonder where the airheaded detective whom she had dragged into the bakery had gone.

"The news station. They got the details wrong. Dolph wasn't killed at the scene, and he didn't die at six AM."

Gwen asked with a hint of skepticism coloring her tone, "What makes you say so?"

David shook his head, "It's just something that Detective Marter figured out a while ago. I can't tell you any more than that - I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up," he changed the subject, "So, how is it that you found this place? It's a really nice restaurant, but this sure is a long ways from Brooklyn."

She could have pressed him for details about the Chapel investigation - it was such a tempting thing - but Bon Voyage was no interrogation room and Gwen was not cruel.

Accepting the diversion, she answered, "I live here. In Harlem."

"You do?" he was quite honestly surprised.

"Yup."

"That's quite the commute."

Her rebuttal was quick and light, "Great views from the Brooklyn Bridge, though."

"I completely agree," he chuckled, "But wouldn't the trip be faster by Queensboro?"

"Like hell am I paying that toll every day. The taxis are pricey enough already."

"Very reasonable," remarked David, "But why not move, then? There has to be an affordable place closer to the precinct or another job opening closer to Harlem."

"I like where I work and I like where I live," Gwen replied defensively, crossing her arms before drolly commenting, "Besides, I'd probably get murdered if I was in Brooklyn 24/7. Believe it or not, some people just don't fucking like me."

There came a moment of hesitation before David said, "I… can't imagine why."

In the middle of lifting her coffee mug to take another sip of the drink, Gwen paused to raise an eyebrow and deadpan, "Hey. Foul language and lousy personality or not, I'm still a step above either of our bosses."

David's sigh was infused with exasperation, "Can't argue with that. "

Somewhat clunkily, she led the conversation forward, "Anyway, what... do you do outside of work?"

He visibly brightened as he animatedly answered, "Oh, I volunteer at the Campbell Orphanage! The kids can be a rowdy bunch sometimes, but I've been in their position myself. It's not hard to understand why the older ones like to cause a bit of trouble every now and then. The founder, Cameron Campbell, isn't as involved these days as he used to be, but it's still his business savvy that keeps the place funded. I really owe him a debt - he gave me so many opportunities and taught me so much. I mean, when you think about it, family is about what you make as much as…."

Trailing off, David seemed to have been struck dumb by a realization. Abruptly, he stood up. He pulled a few coins out of his coat pocket and set them on the table.

Exiting the booth, he said, "Thank you for the Dolph files and the pie. Let me cover the tip, please. It's been very nice meeting you, Gwen. I hope you get a good night's sleep later."

"You too," returned Gwen in an off-kilter manner that stemmed from the swiftness of the farewell, "Safe travels?"

He was already out the door.

* * *

"' _Get out there and carpe diem,_ ' he says," grumbled Max as he pulled his bike to a stop near the front of the Samaritan, "' _You'll be doing us all a great service._ ' Doesn't even let me have some fucking lunch first."

It was generally agreed upon among the Campbell orphans that while Gregg's baked dishes, baked sweets, and overall mastery of the oven and his grandmother's Louisiana recipes made him their uncontested favorite in the kitchen, Darla's pan-fried delights and ability to turn a variety of leftovers into delicious, filling, sweet-sour-salty-savory soups were the orphanage staple, and no meal felt truly complete without her touch. Unfortunately, Gregg was occupied most days with building maintenance and inventory and every now and then a bit of first aid, and Darla was the only one who could drive. Their schedules were arranged such that they were very rarely in the same place at the same time outside of night hours when both of them retired to their neighboring rooms on the ground floor. Once every week - Fridays during summers and school breaks and Sundays otherwise - both of them were able to collaborate on the day's meals, and the children collectively rejoiced.

Max would have to take whatever cold scraps remained of the week's Friday lunch after he returned, and he felt jipped for it.

He swung his legs over the bicycle, stepping onto the ground. He rolled it the last few paces along the sidewalk. His shoes left wet prints on the pavement as the result of riding through a gargantuanly large puddle on his way to the print shop. Each step felt squishy and damp and chafed between his toes.

Spotting a familiar window display, Max looked up to spy an even more familiar mottled, grey awning and faded sign. The door was locked when he tried to open it, so he knocked, and he received no reply. Slightly more annoyed, Max looked to a spot on the wall beside the doorframe where a simple button was installed. He pressed it, and a thickly muffled musical chime rang out from inside the shop. Because the entrance was recessed, there was a small length of window glass and exterior wall for him to lean against as he impatiently waited.

Seconds passed, then minutes. Time crept by at a snail's pace as the mid-afternoon sun beat down on Brooklyn. Various unmemorable pedestrians strode by, as did a postman whom Max vaguely recognized as the same who delivered the orphanage mail and a bowler-hatted musician carrying an elegant instrument case. A pigeon briefly landed on the sidewalk curb, but a passing automobile quickly startled the creature away.

Although Max was not looking forward to the tiresome uphill ride back to the Campbell building and was extremely glad for the shade of the shop awning, hunger left him of ill inclination to remain waiting much longer. He might have had a sandwich earlier, but that bit of sustenance and a handful of sweets were the only things that he had eaten since very early in the morning and a considerable amount of biking.

"Fuck it," he said to himself.

The boy reached into the bag hanging off his shoulder and removed a thin, wax-sealed envelope. He shoved it through the knee-height mail slot on the door. Then, Max turned his bicycle around, swung a leg over it, and rode off.

* * *

"Detective Marter," exclaimed David as he rushed through the dreary main workspace of the small police outpost. He pushed open the door to a cramped office at the back the building, saying, "Sir, I think I've just figured out how-"

The pitiful sight that greeted his eager entrance stole his voice and his enthusiasm.

Quentin Marter, the senile old codger, lay sprawled in his desk chair, unconscious. His posture was slouched, and his head was lolling off the back of the seat. Only one elbow hooked around the corner of the chair seemed to be preventing him from slipping onto the floor. The elderly man still had his police-issued guns and holsters strapped on, and a half-eaten sesame bagel rested on his stomach. A mustard-stained tie around his neck dangled over his chest like an inverted noose. His complexion was sickly and death-like. There was long-dried beer staining his shirt and his grey mustache. His pockmarked chin looked slimy with thickening saliva. Only the rise and fall of his chest and the brittle snoring that accompanied each inhale indicated that this was actually a living human being and not some sorry corpse.

"Oh, sir…" murmured David woefully.

David stepped inside and shut the squeaky office door behind him. With abject weariness, he made the careful trip around the large, walnut desk. He unstrapped Marter's standard-issue Colt revolvers from the man's shoulders and set the weapons down atop the files that Marter had left open on the desk. He loosened the man's tie, and almost immediately, the rumbling snores became gentler. He threw away the bagel.

Laying in the corner beneath an avalanche of crumpled paper was a red and black, plaid-patterned blanket. After a tip-toe journey around a slew of miscellaneous objects on the floor, David dug it up and shook it out. He returned to Detective Marter and draped the cloth over the senior. Then, he made his way back around the desk and found another chair against the wall to sit in. As weight left his feet, he sighed and kneaded his forehead.

His heels hit something soft underneath the chair that he was sitting in. Glancing down, David realized that it was his own snap-brim fedora hat, something that he must have forgotten in Marter's office along with his revolvers. The room was such chaos and so cluttered with items that would not have been out of place in a pawn shop that any object set down instantly blended in with the environment. David was frequently one to leave things there and not find them again for hours or for days on end.

 _Brrringgg_! There went the phone on Marter's desk.

David picked up his hat and pulled it on over his head. Then, he went to answer the ringing device.

In a surprisingly professional tone, he greeted, "Hello, you've reached Detective Marter's office. This is Detective Greenwood speaking."

The gruff voice on the other end of the line was recognizable as that of Sergeant Aldrin's. It said, "Eh? Redhaired kid?"

"Well, I don't see how that's relevant," stated David.

The sergeant grumbled, "Figures that Marter doesn't even answer the phone."

"Detective Marter is the only one of several investigators who's made any progress on a major case. His attention is in high demand," he replied defensively.

Sergeant Aldrin snorted, "Oh, I'll bet... Look, I'll keep this simple. We used to be pals, me an' him, armed forces and all that. I've known him a long time. I've gone to bat for him against the chief when the going was rough. But that scene at the station? That was the last straw. He crossed the line today, Detective Greenwood. The next time you see Marter, you tell him that we're done."

There was a click and a flat dial tone. Aldrin had hung up on both the conversation and what was apparently an old friendship.

David's stony facade broke as he reached up and took off his hat. He looked sadly at the telephone receiver in his other hand for a moment before setting it back where it belonged.

The young man returned himself to the chair against the wall with a tired sigh. His gaze traveled to Detective Marter, whose rolling snores were the only noise in the whole of the office. With the red blanket tucked around him, the old man looked almost peaceful, almost grandfatherly.

Dejectedly, disheartenedly, despondently, David lamented to a room that could not hear him, "Sir... you can't keep burning bridges like this."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I hope this dialogue-heavy chapter was enjoyable. Get ready to meet really meet Detective Marter next chapter. I know that the Camp Camp fandom is much smaller and less active on this site than on Archive Of Our Own, but please leave some of your thoughts in a review!


	5. Prohibition

**Chapter 5: Prohibition**

Take a moment to imagine late afternoon on a summer day. The dimming sun casting violet shadows over the streets of the city; the hubbub and chatter of many thousands of day workers retiring; the parks quieting themselves as children run back home for dinner. Of course, the factory laborers do not have the opportunity to enjoy this experience, nor the night workers, nor the homeless and unemployed. But for a great many in New York, the twilight hours are a time of transition and of contentment.

If there is ever a moment when the city rests, it is here, when storefronts shutter closed and blind pigs begin to squeal; when tables are set for husbands coming home and unsavory men creep out of the woodwork; when punch-clock angels crawl to roost and demons of good intent blink awake.

* * *

Quentin Marter startled into awareness with a thick grunt. The blanket wrapped over his shoulders fell to the floor as he shifted in his seat and disorientedly recognized the faded, oatmeal-colored walls of the room as those of his office. The first thing he consciously chose to do was lean over to spit into the waste bin next to his desk.

"Evening, sir," greeted David politely. He folded up the newspaper he had been reading and set it atop his superior's desk alongside a now-lukewarm cup of coffee, "I picked up today's copy of the _Herald_ for you."

"Erzeguh'un" mumbled the old man unintelligibly.

Marter picked up the coffee and threw it back, downing the entire drink in a few large swallows. He blinked and sniffled himself more fully into cognizance.

His voice low and unobtrusive, David said, "You know you have to stop doing this, right?"

Bleary eyes sharpening and hackles rising, Marter gruffly responded, "Doin' _what_ , exactly, counselor?"

" _This_ ," emphasized David with a gesture toward his supervisor's own disheveled appearance, "Pushing people away. Being hostile. Being drunk on the job! With what you did at the station today… Sergeant Aldrin called earlier to say that… that he's done with you. This kind of behavior, it's just not good for you or for the Chapel case."

The reply he received was simple: once again, Marter hacked a glob of spit into the waste bin.

"Detective Marter," David spoke up more sternly, "This matters."

Grumbling sourly as he found his trilby hat in the mess on his desk, Marter declared, "It don't matter. This case gone stale months ago."

"How can you say that?" refuted the younger man, "There are still new bodies - new victims - every week! There'll be more if we keep letting it happen - kids, parents, people. How can you just sit there and drink?"

With a dead-eyed look on his face, Marter answered, "There be no point. Chapel Jack has got his act together now. You can't tell me you ain't noticed that every scene has been the same since Sparrow."

The old man watched David for a reaction, but the redhead was careful to maintain a flat expression and equally inscrutable posture. When he did not find whatever weakness or emotional reaction he was looking for, he moved on.

Marter continued, "Body dumped in the dead o' night. No witnesses. No evidence o' the killer. Every time, clean as a whistle. Cleaner. Clean like yer rookie-ass behind," he began coughing in the dry, throaty, spastic way that many chain-smokers did, and David winced as the fit dragged on for several painful seconds. Eventually, the old man managed to hold himself together long enough to say, "Lemme tell you something - I ain't got no more leads and I ain't gonna get any. 'Twas them early corpses - the messy ones - when we had a good shot at catching Chapel. Now? Jus' leave 'im be. Let the ruckus die down an' let the NYPD do its job, an' he'll get caught when he eventually slips up."

Finished with his speech, Marter scooted his chair backward and began rummaging through the drawers of his desk. The light, tinkling sound of empty glass bottles knocking against each other played an orchestral solo that echoed off the once-yellow walls of the office. Suddenly, the old man looked up and met the younger detective's eyes in growling outrage.

"Where the hell did you put my spirits, boy?"

Crossing his arms, David responded passively, "You mean that fermented grape juice in your desk and the jar of moonshine in your safe? Maybe I hid them. Or maybe I poured them down the drain where they belong."

"Hadn't pegged you for a dry."

"I'm no temperance preacher," noted David, "But you have a problem, and this conversation isn't over. So for at least the next few minutes, you're going to sit there sober and talk with me."

Sighing his complaint, Marter acquiesced, "Damned urchin. Alright. Speak yer piece."

Clenching his hands into anxious fists, David protested, "You say there's nothing we can do but wait for the killer to make a mistake. But if you really believe that, then why are you still here? Why not quit? You could call it a cold case and move on."

"With them murders still going on, as you so kindly reminded me?" snorted Marter, "Like city hall would allow it. I'm here 'cause I'm past my prime and 'cause the commissioner needs a pretty picture for the papers to put up an' tear down. Ain't nobody gotta say so for it to be obvious from the short end o' the stick. Betwixt the reputation o' the force and the reputation o' one old fool, which d'ya think gets the axe?"

David stared at him for a long time, or at least for what felt like a long time from his perspective. It seemed to the young man that some veil had at last been lifted, that the last piece of the puzzle known as Quentin Marter had been found. He noticed for the first instant since the earliest days of his transfer to Marter's team just how cluttered and dirty the office was, how cloying the scent of alcohol on the stale air tasted, how the mildewed tomes on the bookshelf lay dying and untouched in a crypt-like room that had not been repainted for over ten years.

"I'm sorry that you feel like giving up," he stated defiantly, "But you're wrong about not having any leads. I came here today because I figured out how Chapel Jack chooses his victims."

Marter harrumphed uncaringly, "Did you really?"

"We thought they were just random, unlucky people," he explained earnestly, "But they're not. Chapel Jack isn't killing indiscriminately. All the victims have families."

His superior's skeptical expression pushed him to talk faster.

He said, "The pattern here is based on the victim's role in their family. Out of thirteen known dead, we have seven kids, and each of them lived with a single parent. The four that had single mothers? Three of them were the youngest child, and the fourth had no siblings. The three with single fathers? Two were the oldest, and the most recent was another only child. The six adults? Married parents. Try saying this isn't the start of a profile."

Rolling his eyes, Marter gave him a slow, sarcastic round of applause. The act of clapping displaced enough air to topple a few sheets of paper over the edge of his desk. David's eyes followed them as they drifted slowly onto the wooden floor, their crinkling sound as dry and dusty as the look that Marter gave him.

The old man wryly congratulated, "Good 'un, boy. Type that up an' send it to the chief tomorrow. Make enough noise, maybe they'll find you someplace else to be 'fore my throat gets slit by the goddamned press."

"I'm being serious here, sir."

"So am I," retorted Marter blandly, "I hear Manhattan's looking for educated sleuths like yerself, counselor. Fill out a transfer application. I'll write you up a letter o' recommendation, 'less you'd rather stay in Brooklyn, which case you'll wanna forget to mention me."

David took a deep breath to gather the strength to say what needed to be said.

He replied steadfastly, "No. I'm not going anywhere. Maybe you think that the world is out to get you and that the people in this city will manage just fine with a murderer running around, but I don't. I've put up with this downward spiral of yours for weeks now because I respect the work you've done, but this is where I draw the line for you as my boss. I'm going to pick up responsibility where you won't."

"An' how d'ya reckon you'll do that?"

He knelt down on the floor and began picking up various fallen files. A scattered handful of paperclips was readily available atop the wooden boards for him to use to bind related documents together. It took great care not to accidentally tear some of the wine-dampened sheets while peeling them apart from each other.

Directing his own gaze at the task before him in order to evade Marter's knife-sharp scrutiny, he answered, "You said it was the early victims whose deaths left promising leads, so I'm going to follow up with their families."

Standing back up, David set several neatly paper-clipped bundles back atop the old man's desk. There was a single loose leaf of stationery lying above the other documents in his armload. He pulled it off the pile and slid it closer so that it could be directly in front of him and Marter's telephone. The old man watched him with beady skepticism as he held the receiver to his ear with one hand and tapped the first number listed on the paper with the other.

"It's six-thirty now," stated the young man with a glance at his wristwatch, "People should be home. Chapel's first known victim: Henry… Weisz. Age eight. One older brother, divorced parents, lived with his mother."

Tugging his hat further down his forehead, Marter scoffed, "Weisz? You ain't getting anything useful out of that hag. Damned doctors said as much. She's a mess in the noggin."

The irony of Marter calling anyone a 'mess' made David inwardly wince. However, he could not refute the point that the elderly man was making, so he did not deign to give a response. He began dialing the phone. The thought of exactly how Henry's mother was a 'mess in the noggin' briefly drew his eyes to the stack of files that he had just organized. He knew that he had placed the Weisz police report in there somewhere. It would do him well to refresh his knowledge of it before speaking to her in person for the first time, but before that, he had to arrange a face-to-face meeting.

The whirl of the rotary dial ceased, and for a while, Marter's craggy breathing was the only significant sound in the room.

Then, there was a click on the other end of the phone line, and a woman's shaky voice answered, "Hello? This is Cecilia Weisz speaking."

"Hello, ma'am," David replied, "I'm Detective David Greenwood calling on behalf of the NYPD. I'd like to schedule a meeting in order to follow up on the witness report you supplied in early February."

She stuttered, "O-oh. Does this have to be now?"

"Well, it's not an urgent matter," said David, "And we wouldn't want to inconvenience you or your family. So please, if you can't come to the station tonight, just give us a time when you'll be available."

Her voice trembled before a reedy strength settled it down, "I- I live alone. Harrison has been staying with his father since... I need to leave soon for the night shift at the power station. Would it be possible for you to travel my way instead? I'm sorry to be a bother."

"No bother at all, ma'am. We have your address on file. Would sometime tomorrow morning work for you?"

"M-my apologies again," said Cecilia, "But I'll be attending synagogue tomorrow morning. And then I'll really need to get some sleep afterward. However, I should be available any time Sunday or Monday during daylight hours."

David answered warmly, "I'll see you Sunday morning, then. Would 8:30 be convenient?"

"Very much, thank you."

"No, ma'am, thank you. Please have a good evening."

He hung up the receiver. There was a fountain pen lying on Marter's desk within easy reach. David picked it up and tried to make a note on the document he had in front of him. It took several scritch-scratching practice strokes before ink began to run down the nib, but the dark liquid flowed easily onto the paper once it had begun.

'Sun 8:30 am'

The old man must have been able to hear at least part of what Cecilia had said on the phone, because he chose to derogatorily remark, "Hmph. Jews."

"She's a traumatized woman finding comfort in religion," corrected David pedantically as he finished writing.

David looked up to see that Marter was getting out of his chair. The old man was strapping his gun holsters back on. He took a brief moment to spit into the wastebasket once more. Then, while lightly coughing, he picked up his duster coat from the floor and threw it on over his shoulders.

Sufficiently distracted, David set down the pen and asked with a hint of concern, "Sir? Where are you going?"

The old man grabbed a handful of change and small bills from a mug on his desk and shoved the currency into his pocket. His steps toward the office door were slow and thudding, and each one was accompanied by the light clinking of coins. His shadow crossed over David's face when he passed in front of his desk lamp. A calloused, wrinkled hand was on the doorknob before its owner paused to answer the question that had been put forward.

With a snort full of contempt, Marter replied, "I'm getting a drink an' going home. You can keep the liquor for all I care, counselor. Jus' lock up after ye're done chasing geese, an' don't leave yer belongings here again."

The door slammed shut without ceremony. The impact rattled the overpacked bookshelf nearest to it, causing a number of items, among them a skinny vase, a gilded ashtray, and a face-down stack of photographs, to wobble. Although he left suddenly, Marter's absence seemed to make it easier to breathe. Newly alone in his superior's office, David turned his attention back to his self-assigned task.

* * *

A codgery, choleric, crooked-nosed detective walked into a bar - or rather, a speakeasy in central Brooklyn. Being set up at the back of a warehouse behind a wall of wooden crates holding questionable contents, The Only Bar was not an upscale place. However, no one could deny that it was popular. Dozens upon dozens of patrons passed through the business each night if not each hour. Most of them stopped for only a few minutes in order to purchase a bottle and take it home, but there was always a handful of customers who chose to stay in the gas lamp-lit establishment to nurse their drinks.

Empty crates and folding chairs were scattered about in a chaotic arrangement centered around a bed-sized wire cage. A platypus sat splayed in the middle of said cage, its vengeful eyes glaring at the people who hooted and hollered around it. Along one wall of the building, there was an L-shaped construction of crates that served as a counter. It was accompanied by a shelf full of illicit beverages and an unflappable bartender.

Detective Marter plopped himself into one of the chairs at the counter.

The bartender stated blandly, "$4.50 to feed the platypus."

Marter scrounged a handful of small bills and change from his pockets and threw it down on the wooden surface. The bartender counted out the correct amount by lamplight and pushed a few coins back to the old man.

A single raw shrimp was dropped in front of him, and it hit the crate's top with a soft splat. It was cold and grey and slimy, and its beady, black eyes seemed to stare at him with accusation. With a practiced hand, Marter picked up the dead crustacean and flung it toward the cage in the middle of the room. It sailed cleanly through the frame and landed on the far side of the confinement unit. A pattering march of webbed feet brought the platypus to pounce upon it, and a raucous cheer came up from the patrons at the tables.

"What'll you have?"

The old man grumbled in answer, "Surprise me."

A bottle of off-brand whiskey was set before him along with a tall glass of water. Marter grunted an acknowledgment of thanks and pulled both closer to his chest. He opened the bottle, but he did not yet take a drink. Instead, he sat there and watched the light of the lamps dance in the warped surface of the glass of water.

Conversations continued in the rest of the speakeasy. Topics ranged from matters of politics and religion to business arrangements to the audacity of someone's neighbor in leaving their dog to bark all night long. From his lonely place at the makeshift bar counter, Marter's ears caught snippets of a great many things.

"Damn the temperance advocates, I tell you-"

"There's this hopping new song I can't stop listening to whenever-"

"My grandfather has a drinking problem, and I just don't know what to do but-"

Marter took a swig of his whiskey.

"I think I'll be heading out to catch that new Broadway musical. Cheap seats or not, I-"

"-heard that the mob's been expanding-"

"-in a tough spot right now, Penny."

That last line had come from a grey-haired, mustached man in the far corner who was sitting across from a chestnut-haired woman wearing thick makeup and a very pink skirt. Both of them looked about middle-aged and kept their voices low, but the acoustics of the warehouse carried their words all the way to Marter's seat.

The man spoke, "I think I made a mistake today."

Marter threw back a burning mouthful of alcohol.

The woman replied smoothly and detachedly, "We all make mistakes, although this one of yours seems bigger than most."

Another shot.

"I know that already. You don't have to keep telling me."

"I wouldn't have to if some things would just stick in that head of yours, Cameron."

"Christ, Penny, I said I'm sorry. This won't even change our arrangement. Why are you biting my head off?"

"Because this is a _delicate_ situation. They might be all smiles and drinks in person, but you know that when it comes down to it, we'll be the first ones under the bus."

Two gulps for good luck.

"I made a mistake. I don't want this relationship to end because of it, and I sure as hell don't want the kids to get hurt. They haven't done anything to deserve everything that could go wrong here. I made a mistake."

One extra large swallow that burned the back of his throat.

"You've made a lot of mistakes."

Marter polished off at least a third of the bottle on his next chug. After that, even with his dismal sense of self-awareness, he realized that staying at The Only Bar wasn't doing him any favors. So he left the coins on the counter as a tip for the ever-reliable bartender, and he left. With his half-empty whiskey in hand, the old man staggered out the back door into the chilly evening air to find a taxi ride home.

* * *

Hours later, night had crept upon New York City.

Max was in his pajamas and taking a glass of water from the kitchen when he heard the front door of the orphanage open and close. Heavy footsteps came thudding toward him, and he stepped from the hall back into the kitchen to get out of Cameron Campbell's way. However, the grey-haired man stopped when he saw the boy.

"Why, Max," exclaimed Campbell brightly, "Just who I was looking for!"

"Um, what?" replied Max in bewilderment.

The middle-aged man knelt down and clapped a firm hand on his shoulder before saying with a hint of alcohol on his breath, "Listen, tomorrow, I need you to go back to the Samaritan. This month's Campbell program flyers have to go up around town."

He protested, "I just put those up this morning!"

"Those were the wrong flyers," declared Campbell dismissively, "We're starting a new laundry service in-house, so the ad for that needs to get posted as soon as possible. I'm counting on you, Max."

With an outraged glare, Max complained, "So I have to get up early to replace flyers tomorrow and to deliver papers on Sunday? That makes three days in a row! How is this fair?"

Campbell stood up and admonished, "Son, life isn't often fair. We have to take what it gives us, and in this case, what it gives us is work. Now shoo off to bed, kid, you have a long day ahead of you!"

Max found himself being shoved toward the stairs, and so, with an angry huff, he acquiesced, stomping frustratedly toward the boys' sleeping quarters to get as much rest as he could manage before sunrise.


	6. Faith (part I)

**Chapter 6: Faith (part I)**

Faith, like love, like sanity, and like morality, is deceptive in its apparent simplicity.

Despite what the list of synonyms that one can encounter in a thesaurus may imply, faith is not the same thing as devotion, as trust, as belief or conviction. It exists as a conglomeration of all these concepts, but simultaneously, it is gestalt. It is more. There is faith in God, in karma, in a greater being that rights the world's many wrongs - but to limit one's definition of faith to only the spiritual aspect of the human experience is analogous to limiting one's definition of dessert to cake and nothing else. There is faith in humanity, in science, in true love, in a million small actions taken every day, and in a thousand million heartbeats over the course of a lifetime.

It is faith that inspires droves of people to herd themselves into mosques and churches and synagogues and temples, faith that allows one human being to trust another, faith that leads so many who are weary and downtrodden to create and invent and achieve. If a person is a star, a great ball of burning hydrogen in the vast emptiness of space, then faith is the gravity that binds that star together.

Faith is closer to feeling than it is to fact, yet many act upon it as if it is fact. The truth of the matter must be acknowledged: faith is not fact.

Faith is flexible. Fact is not. Faith is subjective. Fact is not. Faith is soft, warm, and comforting like what one would imagine a mother's caress to be. Fact is not. Faith persists as a mountain persists: its features shifting naturally with the seasons and with time, but its foundation remaining constant, solid, strong like the rock that it is in the face of wind and rain and human fallacy.

But fact persists, too. Fact is rigid, fact is objective. Fact is hard, cold, and frustrating. Fact persists as mathematics persists: untouchable, unchangeable, unyielding, inescapable, void of hope and of aspiration and of affection.

Faith-

* * *

The sky was painted with reds and pinks and violets when Max arrived at the Samaritan on Saturday morning. He found the door unlocked, and so he rolled his bicycle into the grey-tiled shop unannounced. The bike was left to lean against the wall near Neil's own mode of transport, whose chains appeared to be loose and recently oiled. Neither Neil nor his father was anywhere in sight, but looking for them could wait a few moments.

While the June weather may not have been cold, Max's puddle-soaked feet were most definitely freezing. He plopped himself on the stool by the counter and removed his shoes and his socks. The items dropped to the floor with heavy splats. It took at least three minutes and no small amount of effort to wring the water out of his footwear.

The heavy door that separated the storefront from the back room swung open, and out came Neil toting an open-topped box of green flyers. For once, his clothing appeared neat.

"Hey, Neil," greeted Max dourly, "Lake Lilac got bigger."

The taller boy set his box on the counter and sighed, "Seriously? There are a lot of broken things in this city, but God, you'd think a leaky fire hydrant would be a higher priority."

Max scoffed, "They're not gonna care when nobody drives down that street in the summer. Bet you a dollar that the thing keeps leaking till it bursts or till September."

"I'm not dumb enough to take that bet," snorted Neil, "You'd crack the hydrant open yourself if it meant winning."

"I would," acknowledged Max with an air of pride.

He tugged his socks and shoes back on. Neil handed him half of the green leaflets from the box, and he stuffed them into the bag hanging off his shoulder.

"You know," said Neil as he lifted the rest of the flyers from the container and set them down in front of himself, "I could help you put these up."

"Really? Awesome," replied Max, "Hell if I'm gonna turn down that offer. Thanks a million, Neil."

Casually, Neil responded, "It's no big deal. Not like I have anything better to do. If the store was open today, the people at synagogue would judge us."

"Are you sure they won't judge you for, y'know, not going to synagogue?"

With a dismissive shrug and a complete reversal of reasoning, Neil answered, "Hey, it's a small business. We gotta make ends meet. My dad said he'd cover the stamp pickup at the _Icarus_ today, so I'm free. Just let me fix my bike and grab a roll of tape, and we can get out of here."

* * *

Across the street from Neil's synagogue, which had not yet begun to receive visitors for the Sabbath morning service, a troop of young girls in identical, pink-skirted uniforms were unloading flowers from a delivery truck. They brought the brightly colored bundles into an empty shop to stock its bare shelves. A middle-aged woman, who had chestnut-colored hair and who wore far too much makeup, held the door open for the children with a bored expression on her face.

* * *

The streets were quieter early in the morning. There were fewer automobiles, fewer people, fewer food carts, and generally fewer obstacles to maneuver around. The sky was becoming bluer, the light was paling from orange to gold, and a few shops here and there were beginning to open their doors. A strong breeze whistled down the roads and alleys, but despite what the radio forecast had predicted, the winds were not yet cold.

Max and Neil were making decent time on the Campbell flyer route, which happened to pass near Nikki's house. Sitting on his bike and looking down a side street as Neil taped a Campbell advertisement up on the side of a telephone pole, Max could see the hill that blocked the girl's residence from view.

"Do you think Nikki'd join us if we asked?" he wondered aloud.

"Nah," responded Neil with a shake of his head, "It's still too early. Besides, today's Saturday. She has that piano lesson with the church lady."

"Oh, yeah. Sucks for her."

* * *

Nikki was in the kitchen, enjoying a breakfast of oatmeal and apple slices that she had prepared herself. The table that she sat at was wide and circular and could seat at least ten people - but she was eating alone. She was wearing another blue summer dress with loose sleeves and a long skirt. Its color matched the tablecloth so exactly that she would have blended right into it if she allowed herself to. Her meal was interrupted when her mother stopped in to grab a banana from the fruit basket in the center of the table.

"Morning, sweetheart," she said as she dropped the fruit into her purse, "Remember to be nice to your piano teacher. And make sure that you practice before she gets here - you have that recital coming up, and she told me you're a little behind."

"Okay, Mom. But will you be-"

The woman gave her daughter a brief kiss on the forehead and ruffled the girl's curly hair.

"I'll have someone pick you up to join me and the cast for lunch, alright?"

"... Okay, Mom."

"Great. Love you, sweetie."

And then she left before Nikki could reply.

* * *

The sun was getting quite reasonably high in the sky, and the streets were becoming crowded. People with day jobs were heading to work by taxi or by subway or on foot. The sidewalk population of Brooklyn was getting dense enough that Max and Neil could no longer comfortably weave around the pedestrians they came across. So, they were forced to roll their bicycles next to them as they posted more of the Campbell flyers on the sides of buildings and on old fences.

"Say," inquired Neil curiously, "What's the new laundry service thing about?"

Max scorned, "Campbell's starting an 'in-house' business so that the younger kids can work. It's all just a scheme to pay off his gambling debt or something."

"I thought he made money off the Campbell Program's overhead fees."

Shrugging, Max replied, "Not enough, apparently."

Ever-skeptical, Neil questioned, "And a dime-a-load laundry service is supposed to fix that?"

"Who knows what goes on in that guy's head."

They biked another block before stopping to post the last of the flyers.

Out of nowhere, Max pondered, "Hey, do you think that telegram guys will swear if it's part of the message?"

"I dunno," responded Neil, "It probably depends on the person."

* * *

It was nearly ten o'clock, and David was standing just outside the door to the Campbell orphanage building with Darla. With the way that he was tapping his foot on the concrete, blinking rapidly, and clenching his hat in front of his chest, it was clear that he felt anxious.

He apologized profusely, "I'm really really sorry to leave early today and cancel tomorrow, but I have some important meetings to get to. I promise I'll make up the hours over the week."

She laughed softly, the corners of her eyes wrinkling amusedly, "Don't worry about it, David. You're our best volunteer - we'll cut you some slack just this once."

"Thank you, Darla," he inclined his head in gratitude, saying, "Could you tell Max I'm sorry I've missed him?"

"Of course, David," chuckled the dark-haired woman, "Have a good day, now."

He pulled his fedora back on over his head as he began to make his way down the steps with one hand on the railing. Looking back at Darla, he waved, calling out, "Thanks! You too!"

She watched him leave with a nostalgic smile on her face. It brought to her mind a feeling like the taste of dark chocolate on her tongue to reminisce upon the years that a young and angry green-eyed boy had spent under her care in the very same building whose steps she stood on now. Cameron Campbell had been much more directly involved in the daily running of the orphanage back then, which was for the best because she and Gregg had both been new hires. Neither had known at the time that they would still be happily doing the same thing fifteen years later. Darla had to admit to herself that she could not imagine the Campbell Orphanage without the two of them - or without David's many visits, for that matter.

Enjoying the rare moment of peace, she looked up and admired the clouds peppering the blue expanse of Saturday sky and the way that morning sunlight scattered off of stone buildings.

"Hey," a young voice interrupted her, "Where's David?"

She glanced aside at the sidewalk to find Max and his friend Neil standing in front of the orphanage gate with their bicycles next to them.

A regretful smile on her lips, Darla answered, "Sorry, Max, but you just missed him. He had to leave early today to make it to some important meetings. He said he wishes he could have stayed to see you."

Stiffening his posture defensively, Max retorted, "Yeah, well, whatever."

"Max, if you're not busy," said Darla tactfully, "Gregg could use another set of hands clearing out the cellar."

Sighing in an almost exaggerated complaint, Max replied, "Ugh, fine," before he turned to his friend to say, "Later, Neil."

"Later, Max," echoed the other boy as he turned his bicycle around, "I gotta go prep the machine for the new stamps anyway. See ya tomorrow."

Neil rode away, and Max wheeled his bicycle inside the gate, bringing it into the grass and leaning it against the wrought-iron bars of the fence. The sun reflected off the axle of the front wheel to strike Darla's eyes. She turned her head and blinked away the spots dancing in her field of vision. When she looked back at Max, he was at the base of the steps. It was while he climbed them that Darla noticed he was leaving wet footprints on the pavement.

"Max," she admonished, "Your shoes are soaked! Take those off and go inside. I'll set them out to dry."

He removed his shoes and went inside, being sure to shut the front door behind him so that he could not be berated for leaving it open. The house lamps were off, so the foyer that he entered was illuminated only by the ambient daylight that drifted in through the windows. He could faintly hear familiar voices coming from behind the door at the end of the hallway that he knew led into the cellar.

Creaking and squeaking, the wooden floorboards registered every step that Max took. He walked slowly, taking the time to look at some of the many photographs and documents that hung on the walls. They were in more or less chronological order such that the newer ones were nearer the front of orphanage.

Max saw himself and Nerris and Ered framed in glossy black and white, the three of them standing next to each other in last year's Christmas portrait with the rest of the orphanage residents around them. Plus David, who was squeezed in on the opposite side of the photograph from Cameron Campbell. Rolling his eyes, Max moved on. He passed by a number of other photos, but he did not stop for them as he had for the first.

He did, however, halt for a newspaper clipping preserved behind dusty glass and a gilded picture frame. It featured a hazy, grey image of a 20-something Campbell wearing his most winsome smile. Below the photo was an 800-word article about the young entrepreneur who was starting a new orphanage in an expensive part of town. Max's eyes were drawn as they always were to the last few lines of the feature piece, quoted directly from Campbell himself:

 _'Kids who've been unlucky in life deserve more than what the world has given them. I want to make a place for some of them to get the care that they need and the best resources that money can buy - like attendance at Lilac Academy. I have faith in humanity, and I'd love to show the world what can happen when you turn good intentions into action. That's why I'm dedicating my businesses and the rest of my days to creating the best orphanage this city has ever seen.'_

Max scoffed. Whether or not that dubiously altruistic claim of Campbell's had ever been true, it certainly was not anymore.

* * *

It had been a perplexing case from the beginning.

The first victim, a young boy named Henry Weisz, had been killed in north Brooklyn on a February afternoon. A sudden blizzard had driven many people off the streets to seek shelter indoors, and so there was no one else about to see exactly what happened to a mother and son on their way home from the grocery store. The only thing that the police managed to put together was a crude timeline: the two left the store at four o'clock, and twenty-five minutes later, an elderly priest encountered a woman collapsed shivering in the street and a small, mangled body bleeding out into the snow.

When the police arrived, the first thing they did after taking the woman down to the station was reprimand the priest for covering the dead child's body with a white sheet and thereby tampering with the scene. They were confounded and somewhat suspicious to hear that the man had discovered the victim like that.

The simplest thing that could be done to solve the mystery was to ask the mother - who had been conscious and aware when found in the street - for her testimony. She became a sobbing wreck the first time she was questioned. The second and third time they interrogated her, she gave conflicting stories. The fourth, she claimed not to remember exactly what had happened. Psychologists were brought in, and they determined that she had repressed her memory of the traumatic event and was unlikely to recover it. Suspicions fell upon her as well as the priest, but both of them were soon exonerated as a lack of evidence against them persisted and as one strange murder became many.

It was seven forty in the afternoon, and David was sitting alone in a booth at Bon Voyage with a plate of strawberry-chocolate cake in front of him. He had his head in his hands, and he was barely picking at his food. Thoughts of the Weisz files he had re-read earlier and the possibility of simply calling Cecilia to cancel tomorrow's meeting flitted through his mind. The hours that had passed between leaving the Campbell orphanage that morning and where he found himself now had not been kind.

Speaking with those who had known Chapel Jack's early victims was a difficult experience, to say the least. He first visited the priest who had found Cecilia Weisz, and although the elderly man was amiable and talkative, he could tell David nothing that had not already been recorded in the police report.

None of David's other conversations had gone any better, and by the last meeting, he could barely go through with asking the questions that he had outlined yesterday night. It weighed heavily on his conscience that he had spent the last hour or more forcing a twelve-year-old boy and his grandmother to relive the experience of finding the child's parents dead beneath the stage of the Sparrow Street theater and still had nothing to show for it.

"Hey," said a familiar voice, "Mind if I take a seat?"

His musings of shame suddenly interrupted, David glanced up from the table to see Gwen standing next to him, her hat being folded into a pocket of her overcoat.

"Oh," he said, startled, "You're here two days in a row?"

Her tone became less laid-back and more annoyed, "Kind of a pot and kettle situation here, David."

"Right, right," he laughed tiredly, "Sorry. It's been a long day. Please, sit down. I could use the company."

She joined him across the table.

Quirking an eyebrow at him, she remarked, "It's kinda weird to see you in a hat. Even with the circus red thing you have going on, I can't tell what color your hair is under there. Are you going to keep wearing it indoors?"

"What?" David reached for his head, and his fingers found fabric. He removed the accessory with an embarrassed rush of words, "Oh, gosh, I hadn't realized I still had this on. I'm sorry."

"No worries," responded Gwen indifferently.

They conversed for some amount of time, discussing such things as long working hours and frustrating assignments and not having enough time during the week to become involved in other activities. Gwen ordered herself a few croissants, and David finished his cake. The waitress informed them that the bakery would be closing at eight, which prompted David to inquire as to whether or not the establishment would be open on Sunday. When told that Bon Voyage would be closed, he ordered a half-dozen doughnuts to go.

"Thank you," he said when the blue carton of pastries was handed to him.

"You're welcome, honey," answered the waitress before returning to her task of wiping down a nearby table.

Gwen put forward a droll comment, "Sunday doughnuts, eh? Looking to bribe a priest or something?"

With an amused smile, David responded, "No, just a witness," he glanced down at the box in sudden realization, worrying, "Oh, wait, she's Jewish. I hope these are kosher."

The waitress overheard him and called out, "Unless your lady's really Orthodox, you're fine, darling."

"Alright, then," sighed David in relief, "Thanks again."

He and Gwen left the restaurant not long after that. Both his subway station and her apartment happened to lie in the same direction, so they strolled together for a while as the sun drifted ever lower in the sky.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Please leave a review! Thoughts and feedback would be much appreciated.


	7. Faith (part II)

**Chapter 7: Faith (part II)**

Faith erodes.

* * *

It was Sunday; thus, Neil was busy.

Although not nearly so well known or widely read as the _New York Times_ or the _Tribune_ , the _Icarus_ was still a giant in its own right, and it was most certainly a colossus compared to the local publications that made up the bulk of the Samaritan's clientele. The company operated primarily in Manhattan, but a notable portion of their readership had come to be located in Brooklyn in recent years. Within Manhattan, they did their printing in-house. However, the new owner had decided that it would be cheaper to outsource Brooklyn production to a local shop than to maintain an additional printing press and organize a new delivery system in the borough across the river.

The sun was beginning to creep up over the horizon, and Neil rushed another bundle of newspapers from the back room to the metal wagon sitting outside. The stacks were tall and fat and held together by crosses of twine, and he could fit exactly six of them into the transport. The pack that Neil had just put down was the very last of the set.

"Hurry up, Neil," complained Max in bored frustration from atop his bicycle, the long shadow of the print shop's awning falling over his face.

With a great heave on the coarse rope, Neil pulled the loaded wagon forward the few inches necessary to hook it to the clip on the back of Max's bike. He gave the system a tug to ensure it was secured, and then he gave his friend a thumbs up.

Gasping with the moderate strain of the past few minutes, he wheezed, "You're good to go."

Max rode off to deliver the teetering stacks of paper to a number of news stands elsewhere in Brooklyn. Nerris had already preceded him with cargo meant to be delivered to the doorsteps of a number of wealthy subscribers to the publication. Neil headed back inside - he needed to pick up his bike and his own batch of papers to hit the south coast and return to the Samaritan before Max and Nerris finished their own routes. Timing was everything when it came to the news, according to the journalists and editors at the _Icarus_ \- and who was he to disagree when they were the ones to write the headlines?

' _Religion, Prohibition, and Crime - Good Intentions Gone Awry'_

* * *

Riding in a moderately crowded subway car on a track leading from his neighborhood to north Brooklyn, David pondered the conversation that he had shared with Gwen yesterday as they left the bakery. He was of two minds as to whether he wished that their time together had been longer or shorter.

 _Last evening..._

"So," he had asked curiously as they strolled down the sidewalk, "Why is it that you became a police photographer?"

Half-shrugging and half-stretching, Gwen had lazily replied, "Family stuff, I guess. My dad was a psychologist on the city's bankroll before he retired. He also liked guns and photography. Taught me a lot about cameras."

"What about your mother?"

Silent contemplation reigned, and for a few slow moments, their footsteps were the only sound in the world.

Gwen stated with some amount of hesitance, "I guess… my mom's the reason why I turned down a job at the Tribune to stay with the NYPD."

The box of doughnuts was beginning to slide out of his grip, so David shifted the positioning of the container to set it over his left arm. He waited patiently for Gwen to offer more information or keep to herself as she chose.

Eventually, she continued explaining, "She grew up in a bad part of Brooklyn. She knew a lot of people who were caught up in the wrong crowd, and she saw a lot of things that should have been reported to the police but never were. She got out of there as soon as she could - but those experiences haunted her for the rest of her life. Sometimes, I think they're what killed her…. My mom had a lot of regrets. Maybe what I'm doing now is just trying to make up for them so that I don't wind up like her."

With a bump of her elbow against David's, Gwen changed the subject, "What about you, Mr. Goody-two-shoes? We all got a sob story."

David laughed, saying, "Mine isn't so dramatic, really. Once upon a time, my mom died, and I went to the orphanage. After Lilac Academy, I thought I'd just work at Campbell's as staff for the rest of my life, but then Columbia offered me a place in their law program. Three years down the line, I wasn't very happy with the degree. Then, an internship with the NYPD put me on a better career path. The end."

"Come on," scoffed the woman good-naturedly, "There has to to be more to it than that. You're holding out on me."

He feigned offense, huffing exaggeratedly, "I most certainly am not!"

"We all got a sob story," reiterated Gwen wisely, "I'll forgive you for not remembering yours. Most of us forget 'em after a month of decent pay and a few dead bodies."

He chided, "I don't think you give people enough credit. Everyone is good at heart."

Gwen raised an eyebrow, asking, "Even Chapel Jack?"

David had faltered, his feet stumbling on the sidewalk, his carefree grin turning into a perturbed frown, and his hands nearly fumbling the box of doughnuts. It took him several jarring steps to reclaim his balance. Gwen seemed to recognize that she had touched on a delicate topic, and so the conversation redirected itself to the innocuous subject of baseball. Not long after, they arrived at the intersection where their paths diverged. Gwen needed to go home to her apartment, and David needed to catch the subway back to Brooklyn. They parted on amicable terms.

 _Now…_

There came the shrill screech of brakes on metal, and the subway car gradually ground to a halt.

David gripped the edge of his seat in an effort to reduce the amount of jostling he was experiencing. A few moments after the vehicle came to a complete stop, a number of passengers stood and milled toward the doors, which were pulled open by uniformed attendants. They debarked, and almost immediately, more passengers entered the car to replace them. Hats and coats and dresses of all shapes, sizes, and colors came aboard, and all of them blended together in the perpetual, idyllic twilight of the electric lamps.

* * *

In the morning light, the vaulted ceilings glowed, the gold-leaf of the pillars gleamed, and the stained glass windows set the pale walls and carpeted floor ablaze with jewel-like colors. Throngs of people dressed at their Sunday best were filing in through the tall, regal doors of the church. Men marched mechanically to the pews with their wives fanning themselves in the summer heat and their children fidgeting uncomfortably in formal clothes. Many churchgoers engaged verbally with each other, murmuring in polite and familiar conversation. A number of clergymen stood near the pulpit, having their own discussions.

Although he was among the earliest to arrive, Detective Quentin Marter chose to sit in a pew at the back of the congregation. He remained still and quiet, taking in the musty scent of wooden benches and well-worn paper and the way that the white noise of people's chatter reverberated solemnly over his head.

"Hello," chimed a feminine voice from the aisle to his right, "Mind if I sit here?"

Marter looked over to see a young woman, dark-skinned with pale hair and paler eyes, standing at the side of the pew. Her pearl earrings matched the color of her blouse and complimented the the cut of her violet skirt. With nary a hair out of place in her bun and not a stain on her teeth, she smiled at him as pleasantly as a summer's starry night.

He glanced away and shifted over, grumbling, "Go ahead."

She took a seat next to him on the otherwise empty pew. The bench creaked as she settled her slight frame upon it. The added weight of another person caused a string of rosary beads hanging from the pocket behind the pew to fall to the ground. The wooden spheres bounced on the carpet, and the cross of the necklace became tangled in the dark string. No one noticed.

Making casual, courteous conversation, she said, "Not to seem rude, but I don't believe that I've seen you here before."

Slowly and woodenly, Marter replied, "I ain't been to church in a while."

"Oh?" her previously feigned interest became a shade closer to genuine, "What's brought you back?"

His clipped answer went, "Loss of a friend."

"I'm sorry," came the tactful consolation, "That must be hard. I hope you'll find comfort in today's sermon. Father Miller is an excellent speaker."

"Hmph," grunted Marter in gruff response, "Been a long time since I set foot here. I don't know these preachers."

Her analytical gaze rested upon him in silence for a while. She looked at him as if he were some mild curiosity from the circus. He looked back at her pale eyes with the mistrust and veiled scorn of an old man browbeaten by far worse things than a young socialite. Her straight-backed posture and ceramic face and her glassy eyes sung of glaciality and indifference. His slouch and his glower and his hunched shoulders screamed coarse suspicion. She tilted her head in idle calculation. He settled in his seat like dust atop the crucifixes on the walls.

It was somewhat surprising when she held out her hand and offered with the well-mannered air of an upper-class woman, "I could introduce you, stranger."

After a moment of heavy consideration, Marter shed his reluctance and took her proffered hold. The two of them stood up, and she took her hand away.

He named himself as they edged out of the pew and into the aisle, "Quentin."

She identified herself with measured grace, "Jen. Welcome to St. Augustine's."

* * *

Six and five - homicides and crime scenes. The numbers that summed up the initial killing spree, up to and including the highly publicized Sparrow Street Slaughter, that the NYPD had deduced was the work of one person. Four and two - children and adults. The numbers that described at the most elementary level the identities of the victims, disregarding entirely their names, their families, their hobbies, and everything else that once made them alive. Three - the number of copycat killers who managed to muddy up the investigation before Detective Marter caught them. One - the number of real witnesses that had been found in the whole of New York.

It had been a perplexing case from the beginning.

David was journeying up the steps of the narrow townhouse whose address was on record as that of Cecilia Weisz, and he was running through a mental checklist of things that he hoped he had not left at home or at the office. His badge? Buttoned into an inner pocket. His gun? Clipped to his belt. His hat? Grazing the tips of his ears. Everything that Detective Marter had repeatedly reprimanded him for leaving the office without was on his person - along with the carton of doughnuts from Bon Voyage. The box was a crisp, glossy, robin's-egg blue that seemed particularly noticeable against the earthy tones and mostly drab color palette of the neighborhood.

He found himself slowing his gait as he thought about the disappointing interviews he had engaged in yesterday. Sighing in consternation, he let go of his frustration and turned his thoughts to the bright side instead - he was at Cecilia's house. Whether or not the meeting went well, it would be the last of his follow-ups for the weekend. David could return to the station to try to approach the Chapel case from a new angle, and a traumatized mother could be left to continue putting herself back together enough to regain custody of her remaining son.

At the doorstep to the house, he swiveled about to appreciate, for a few moments, the beauty of the town.

There was a lanky maple tree growing across the street, and the sound of birdsong rang out from its branches like church bells. The golden light of the morning sun cast long, ebony shadows across the cobblestone road. A street lamp with a burned-out bulb had an ornate spider web clinging to its crossbar, and dewdrops were diamonds on display in the web's hair-thin lines. Cecilia's neighborhood was located at the top of a stout hill with a lovely view beyond the local sights. In the distance, David could make out the impressionistic silhouette of the Manhattan skyline against a backdrop of cottony clouds.

When he turned back around to face the door, he noticed that there was lavender growing in Cecilia's window boxes. Little bundles of pastel-colored stars, the flowers were in full bloom. Their earthy, honey-sweet scent hit his nose and sent his mind back to distant days spent at the Campbell Orphanage. Planting flowers around the building, taking trips to the park, visiting museums and libraries and the zoo with a motley crew of friends with whom he no longer kept in regular contact. Nostalgia hit him like a particularly wistful brick. He took the time to enjoy the memories.

Feeling content and invigorated, David pushed away his musings and at last made himself known. Tucking the doughnuts under his left arm, he took the door's time-tarnished, bronze knocker in his right hand and tapped it against pale wood. The noise of his knocking struck his ears as quite the racket, but this was due at least in part to the acoustics of the doorstep's dome-shaped awning and the building's recessed entrance.

There came muffled footsteps and creaking from inside the house.

Faintly, woman's voice warbled, "I'll be there in a moment!"

A stiff, cold breeze rushed by as if it were late to Sunday worship, catching the tail of David's coat and the brim of his hat in its grip. David stepped farther into the recessed entrance to escape the chill that the wind brought with it and pulled his hat further down to keep the accessory on his head. The writhing air stilled as quickly as it had come alive.

The handle turned, and the door swung half-open, just wide enough for a gauntly built woman to stand in the gap. She wore a gentle smile at first, but it disappeared almost immediately. She froze and stared at him as if he were some strange spectacle escaped from the circus.

Her hair, straight and plain and an unassuming brown, was cut modestly. Her wide eyes were a pear green color that was neither notably dull nor notably bright. Her forehead showed stress wrinkles, and her slack mouth looked entirely too dry and chapped to be healthy for her. Cecilia Weisz looked tired.

She also looked dazed.

David put on a wide grin and greeted her pleasantly, "Hello, ma'am."

And then she looked terrified.

The door slammed shut in David's face. He took a step back in astonishment.

Several moments passed in uncertainty, but eventually, he knocked on the door once again. He waited a few moments more, but there came no response.

He said, "Mrs. Weisz? Could you please answer me?"

Still nothing.

David tried turning the handle, but the door was locked. He knocked more loudly and called the woman's name again. She did not respond, and he could not hear her moving inside the house. His frown became more severe and his brow became more creased. He was growing concerned.

 _Bang_ , went the crack of a gunshot within the building. It was followed by a heavy _thump_ that coincided with David's stomach dropping in despair and with the fall of the pastry box onto the pavement. He hammered a fist on the door and twisted the handle repeatedly and even tried to kick the entrance in, all to no avail.

He shouted with rising panic, "Mrs. Weisz! Cecilia!"

But because she had been the sole inhabitant of her house and because the neighbors were attending church, no living ears were there to hear him.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** As a word of warning: these previously weekly updates are about to become very irregular. School, college + scholarship applications, the upcoming FRC robotics season, and a number of other commitments demand my attention in real life; the amount of time I put into writing is going to take a sharp downturn. Follow this story to be notified of new chapters whenever they may arrive.

I'd love to hear some thoughts on this fic and this chapter in the comments below!


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